


Between the Darkness and You

by shingekinoboyfriends



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 90s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, wherein marco loves magic: the gathering and jean is a mopey chicken nugget
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekinoboyfriends/pseuds/shingekinoboyfriends
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ones we love always find a way back to us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i can tell that we are gonna be friends

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's the deal.
> 
> Katie and I took a year. A little more than a year, I guess. We tried a handful of times to figure out how to start our promised reibert fic, which would have been set in the same universe as AMAIEC, but we just couldn't do it. Something about it always felt wrong.
> 
> But. About a month ago, we were suddenly struck by five billion different jeanmarco feels. And originally, when we finished our last fic, we had just grown so attached to our characters that we didn't want to write another jeanmarco story. Now, we are (finally) ready to do something new! 
> 
> So here we go with a fic that is a lot different in many ways than AMAIEC, a fic that will span a much longer period of time than AMAIEC, but will hopefully be just as heartwrench- I mean, heartwarming. :3c
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the new fic!!
> 
>  
> 
> *****Chapters alternate between Jean and Marco's point of view, beginning with Jean's.[Annie](http://shingekinoboyfriends.tumblr.com) will be writing the Jean chapters, and [Katie](http://katiedegennaro.tumblr.com) will be writing the Marco chapters.*****

"Tonight I'll dream, while I'm in bed,  
When silly thoughts go through my head,  
About the bugs and alphabet,  
And when I wake tomorrow I'll bet  
That you and I will walk together again."

_We're Going to Be Friends – The White Stripes_

 

* * *

 

It starts out the way every morning does before Dad has to take me to the airport. 

 

Once a year since I can remember, it's been the same routine – Dad wakes me up real early, bundles me up in a scarf and hat and big puffy coat, takes me to the doughnut shop, and lets me pick out whatever kind I want. (I always get the cream stick. He always gets a big cup of coffee.) When we get back to the house we sit in the living room with Little Girl, our collie, and have breakfast together. Dad pretends to get mad when I sneak her little pieces of doughnut, and then she jumps up on my lap and licks my face all over.

 

After that we both get kind of sad. I can see it in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiles and says: "Okay Jean, time to go get your suitcase." I can feel it in the way he sighs with his hands on the wheel of his pick-up truck, staring down at it for a second before he shifts into drive and we start for the highway.

 

We're about halfway to the air port when Dad goes, "We're getting a new neighbor."

 

"What happened to the old lady?" I say, crinkling up my nose and turning from the window. "She didn't croak, did she?"

 

"No, no!" he assures me, laughing a little. I like Dad's laugh. It's not like most adults, that laugh  _at_  you. He laughs like we're best friends. "She stopped me the other morning before I took you to school. I think it was your last day before holiday break? ...Yeah, yeah it was. Anyway. She said her grandson is coming to live with her! Isn't that exciting?"

 

I shrug. "How old's he?"

 

"He's just your age," Dad smiles. "He turned seven in June."

 

"Oh." Then I smile a little. "That's kind of cool."

 

"I know! That's what I told her... Apparently it's under sad circumstances, though, so when you get back, maybe we can both go over there and meet him?"

 

I almost ask about why this kid's got it so bad living with his grandma, but for some reason, I just don't.

 

Maybe I just don't care enough to find out.

 

* * *

 

Plane rides make me sad. They make me sad because I won't see Dad or Little Girl for two whole weeks. They make me sad because I have to ride by myself on the plane, right on the aisle next to some old dude... and the worst part is that I know if Dad were here, he'd let me switch seats with him so I could have the window.

 

The clouds today look like snow-capped mountains, and I don't know why, but this makes me sad, too.

 

But I'm not sad forever – because when the plane starts to dip down and the stewardess lady that's been checking up on me comes to tell me we're going to land soon, I start to feel that excitement bubble in my stomach.

 

The trip to California always kind of stinks, but I love it when we land and I see Mom waiting for me on the other side of the terminal.

 

Today, she's wearing sunglasses with her flip-phone pressed to her ear. Her lips are bright red, and she's looking off in the other direction, focused on the conversation she's in the middle of. She doesn't see me walk up, but when she does, she turns a little, flips her sunglasses up, and I see her eyes light up. She waves down at me, then flashes me her index finger.  _One minute._

 

Except it's not just  _one minute._  It's more like an hour.

 

...Okay, maybe not an hour. Probably ten minutes - but it doesn't matter. I get bored real fast, and I wish I hadn't packed my Gameboy away after I got off the plane. 

 

I get so bored I wind up people-watching, which isn't to say that I don't enjoy people-watching. I do it a lot, actually. Where Dad and I live, there's usually lots of people walking by. We're on a main road, and it's not a long walk from a bunch of shops in the downtown area of our town. I like to look at people and make up stories about them in my head, like that lady who's wearing baggy sweatpants and her baseball hat on backwards. I imagine she's a famous hip hop DJ that's also secretly a Pokemon trainer. Her starter was probably Squirtle. There’s a kid sitting at the terminal across from me, holding his blankie and crying. His mouth is rung with a pink stain, probably from Kool-Aid. Kool-Aid mouth kids are the worst. He doesn’t even deserve a back story, I can practically smell his Kool-Aid mouth from here.

 

“Alright, ready to go, Jean?” Mom asks, and I nod. She takes my bag for me and we start to head across the airport for the downstairs exit.

 

“How was your flight punkin’?”

 

I shrug. “Good. I didn’t get to sit by the window though.”

 

“Ugh, I hate having an aisle seat. People always bumping into your shoulder. Last week when I was visiting a friend in Quebec…”

 

Mom does a lot of traveling. Dad’s the opposite, he never goes anywhere. Sometimes he gets a couple days off and we go camping, but that’s it. I think Mom has been to every single country at least once. Maybe not country… I mean continent. She’s got to have been to all of those. She goes with friends, with her work. She traveled to Japan for a conference a couple months ago, and sent me a giant stuffed animal panda. It was pretty cute before Little Girl chewed its eyeballs off.

 

Anyway, I don’t get to see Mom that often because we live on practically two opposite sides of the country. She’s in California. (Well, most of the time.) Me and Dad are in Michigan. It’s fun when I get to see her because it’s like a vacation from real life. Sometimes when I’m with Mom, it feels more like a dream than anything, and in two weeks, I get to wake up with a nice memory.

 

It’s just that sometimes, I wish it felt more real.

 

* * *

 

I’m supposed to stay with Mom for two weeks. That’s the way it always goes. She knows that, Dad knows that. And for the first week I’m staying there, we have lots of fun. She has to work during the day, so a lot of the time I hang out with Greta, Mom’s housekeeper. She takes me out to ice cream and to play indoor mini golf. Mom’s set up the house with loads of games for me to play on TV while she’s out of the house, and I even get Greta to play some of them with me. (She confiscates Grand Theft Auto.)

 

When Mom gets home, we go out to dinner. Some nights when she’s not tired, she’ll take me shopping with her, or to see a movie that Dad probably wouldn’t let me see because it’s rated PG-13. I’m only seven, after all.

 

But then we get home and she has me get ready for bed. She puts me to bed, kisses me on the forehead and then when she leaves, I stay up watching cartoons on the big television she hung on the wall of the guest bedroom. Rocket Power is my new favorite – Dad and I don’t get the cable channels because it’s too much.

 

But anyway, after exactly eight days of me being on vacation, Mom breaks the news to me over dinner at this really fancy steakhouse that I have to leave in the morning.

 

“I didn’t know that my boss was having me fly to Vancouver for another conference,” she says, and massages her temples as she tells me. I just sit there in silence, watching her through the steam rising from my spaghetti. She looks down, to the left, then takes a sip of wine. “Your Dad is not happy with me.”

 

There’s a long period of time when I just don’t know what to say. I just sit there with my hands in my lap, hungry but not, confused but not.

 

“But my plane ticket says my flight leaves on Sunday,” I finally say.

 

Mom finally looks up at me, looks like she wants to say something. Instead, she just sighs, looks down at her steak before cutting a piece off the end and stabbing it with her fork. “We got your flight changed, so you don’t have to worry about it. I’m just really sorry, Jean.”

 

I feel so sad. I also kind of feel like kicking something. Maybe that dumb waiter. I see him keep winking at Mom when he thinks I’m not looking and when I look back over at Mom, she tries to hide a smile.

 

“I wanted us to hang out more,” I try again. “We were going to go to that amusement park on Saturday.”

 

“Next time,” she says, looks up at me again, and smiles. “I wish we had more time, but we’ll do it next time, okay?”

 

I watch her face for a moment, then grab my fork and twirl a bunch of noodles around it. “I guess.”

 

The spaghetti doesn’t taste so good here. I like Dad’s better.

 

* * *

 

When I leave in the morning, Mom has already left for work, so she has a chauffer car drop me off at the airport. I try to call her before I get on the plane, but she doesn’t answer – and when I go to try again, there’s an announcement overhead to turn off all cellular devices. I hang up the phone on the wall and sit back in my seat.

 

The clouds look like seafoam today. As soon as the orange light of sunrise clears through the clouds, I squeeze my eyes shut tight and harden myself.

 

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry._

 

I wait. The feeling is still there, the burning in my gut, stinging and tearing at my center until that’s all I am. And then, when we reach 35,000 feet and my eyes open, and the guy in the window seat next to me has closed the shade and blocked out that blinding light, I feel nothing, a soothing numbness that I make sure to remember. Life is easier when you pretend not to feel the hurt.

 

* * *

 

_This is the last trip I make to California. I don’t see Mom anymore._

 

* * *

 

When I get back, Dad seems angry, just like Mom said he would be. It’s not that he has to pick me up at the airport when he should be at work, it’s something else, but I don’t really understand. He does seem happy to see me though. He takes me home and makes me mac n’ cheese, then drives me across town to my grandma’s for the day.

 

“It’s like this,” Granny says, pouring me some orange juice as she flicks the ash of a cigarette in the ash tray on the kitchen counter. “Your father’s pissed at your momma because she’s bad at prioritizing.”

 

I squint. Granny always says things in a confusing way. “What’s ‘prioritizing’?” I ask.

 

She takes a drag. Smoke blows up toward the yellowed ceiling. “It means, well, it’s sorta like a system. Deciding what’s most important first, ‘n whatnot. Your momma, she thinks the wrong things are important.”

 

“Like, what?” I prod again, leaning with my whole body over top of the dining room table, wrinkling the tablecloth. She looks me up and down, and I grin up at her, and then she does too. She slides the cup of orange juice into my hand and I take a big sideways gulp – and when it slides down the side of my chin she wrinkles up her nose and inhales again.

 

“Well,” she shrugs, “it’s a lot of things. Always has been. Your momma and daddy have had it complicated, no doubt about that. All first loves are complicated. You’ll learn that someday… There’s not a single answer to things like ‘why’s your pop mad’ but, oh-hey.”

 

See, this is what I mean. Grandma always says the weirdest stuff, and it’s _irritating_. I like that word. It’s personal. I feel irritated a lot, I think.

 

“So they’re mad at each other,” I decide finally, firmly, thinking that I’ve at least got the bottom line.

 

That’s when she shakes her head. “I think Henri’s madder’n Romy ever was. But that’s saying something too, I s’pose.”

 

I sigh. I don’t get it, but I don’t feel like having her try and explain more to me. “Wanna watch a movie?” I ask instead. “I brought some.”

 

“I’ll probably fall asleep again,” she grins, but starts to head toward the TV room anyway. “You ever invite any of your school friends over to watch movies? Or, I don’t know what you kids are doing these days. Playing your Nintendos?”

 

“It’s called a _GameBoy,_ grandma.”

 

“Yeah, those.”

 

“ _Heck_ no,” I grimace, then refocus. “Those kids… Listen, I don’t get along with most kids. I’m just glad I’m still on Christmas break, so I don’t have to see them for a whole ‘nother week.”

 

She takes the DVD I pull out of my bag (3 Ninjas – a classic) and puts it in for us, then sits down next to me on the couch in her teeny tiny living room. One of her four cats – this one’s Nelly – hops onto the back of the couch and curls her tail around my ears. I laugh unintentionally.

 

As the intro credits start, she goes, “Jean, I’m just worried about my little boy. You spend all your time with your dad ‘n me. Don’t you want to meet other little boys your own age?”

 

I stick my tongue out. “Haven’t met one I liked yet. I’m starting to give up hope.”

 

Now this just tickles Grandma. She laughs her big belly laugh and the brooch on her sweater jiggles a bunch. “Jeannie–”

 

“Grandmaaaaaaa…”

 

“ _Jean,_ ” she corrects herself, remembering I hate that nickname more than life itself. Then she lays her hand flat on my head, pushes the hair into my eyes, and sighs. “You are one of a kind, kiddo.”

 

I snort, push her hand away, and eventually find myself leaning with my head on her shoulder.

 

As far as grandmas go, I got pretty lucky. I mean, she understands kids suck. And she even likes 3 Ninjas.

 

* * *

 

That night, Dad convinces me to go next door with him. I’m eating chicken nuggets up in my room, playing Crash Bandicoot on GameBoy, and when he busts in with the proposition to go greet the new kid next door, I argue with him for probably five whole minutes before he threatens to take away nuggets for a week if I don’t go.

 

I’m downstairs in three, pulling my coat and boots on in two, and before I know it, we’re headed out the door.

 

“Remember, Jean,” Dad says in the tone he always takes whenever he gets serious with me. “Be on your best behavior. The boy you’re about to meet is very sad – he’s just lost both his parents.”

 

“I remember,” I reply, rolling my eyes, but then from out of the corner of my eye I see Dad giving me that look and I straighten my shoulders, serious again. “Don’t worry. I’ll be nice. But if I don’t get along with him, don’t make me go over to play all the time.”

 

He shrugs, puts a hand on my shoulder. Together we walk up the front steps. “Fair enough.”

 

I don’t get along with most kids my age. I just don’t think they’re on my level, or something. I’m pretty mature for a seven-year-old, to be honest. I’ve traveled more than most kids. I have excellent taste in movies. I’m old enough to know girls don’t have cooties, I just don’t get them. For example, none of the girls in my class have seen Star Wars. Most boys have, but that doesn’t mean I like them, either.

 

Anyway, we just don’t get along – me and everyone else. That’s why I’m kind of irritated that Dad’s making me go meet this kid. That, and the fact I should still be in California with Mom.

 

Dad rings the doorbell and we wait. He checks his watch. I peek in through the front window for any signs of life. Nada. It looks dark in there, and my stomach feels queasy just thinking about what I’m about to have to do.

 

It’s cold outside. My breath fogs the windowpane, fogs my vision.

 

And then, suddenly, the door’s opening.

 

“Ah, Henri!” an old woman says. I’ve seen her before, but not up close. Dad’s the one who socializes with the neighbors. Not me. Anyway, I guess I never really paid too much attention to the old lady who lives next door. I don’t even know her name – but the first thing I really see about her isn’t the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, not the way her hand shakes a little to steady the cane beneath it. It’s her hair. It’s pure white, not even a single strand of gray in it. It looks like the snow that’s caked on the edges of my boots, like clouds. Puffy, too.

 

“Hello, Mrs. Bodt,” Dad smiles. He’s got that young-dad charisma that all the ladies love. Even the old ones too, I guess, because at this, Mrs. Bodt beams.

 

“Come in, come in,” she hurries us, squinting out at the street, even though the sun went down about an hour ago. “You’ll catch a cold.”

 

Dad looks down at me, silently offering me to walk in first. I don’t want to. Instead, I take a step back and shove the back of his jacket forward, and I hear him let out a laugh.

 

“Mrs. Bodt,” Dad says as he starts to pull the gloves off his hands, “this is my son, Jean. I’m not sure you’ve met.”

 

The door closes behind me, and all at once I’m trapped in a house that smells like you’d expect an old person’s house to smell. Kind of like moth balls. Kind of like the choky-kind of perfume. There are fake flowers everywhere. And lace.

 

“Ah, Jean,” she says, and extends her hand.

 

I take it after a second, shake it once quickly, then pull back. “It’s nice to meet you,” she goes on. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

 

I just nod, not really sure what to say. Dad coughs. It’s very quiet.

 

“Well, Marco should be upstairs in his room,” she says, pointing up the dark wood bannister behind her. “He hasn’t come out in a few days, and I haven’t been up to clean – I apologize if he’s made a mess of it.”

 

“Oh, Jean’s quite used to messy rooms,” Dad laughs, and then Mrs. Bodt laughs. That’s rich, Dad. _Real_ rich.

 

“Go on,” Dad says after a minute, “but take your shoes off first.”

 

I don’t even want to go. I don’t want to take my shoes off. I just want to go back to my own room, back to our house next door that feels like miles away in here. But Dad expects me to, and I can’t really say no now that we’re already here, so I bend down, unlace my winter boots, and hand my coat to Dad before I start up the steps. As I go, I hear Dad strike up a conversation with the old lady, and she laughs an old belly laugh at something he’s said once I’m up the second set of stairs – just out of eyeshot.

 

It’s a kind laugh.

 

The wrinkle factory forgot to tell me which room is her grandkid’s, so I knock on three doors (a closet, a bathroom, and a dusty office) before I hear something on the other side.

 

“Yeah?”

 

The sound of his voice makes me a little nervous. Who wouldn’t be though? This is weird. This is _so_ weird. For a lot of reasons.

 

1.) I’ve never been here before.

2.) I haven’t met this kid.

3.) I don’t really like people. There. I said it. And, because of this,

4.) I don’t _want_ to meet this kid.

 

But I suck it up anyway because I’ve made it this far. I force my hand up to grab the door handle, turn it to the left, and push the door open.

 

And there he is.

 

This kid – Marco – is sitting cross-legged, watching Wheel of Fortune on a TV the size of my pocket, wearing a light blue, fuzzy-pajama onesie.

 

My eyes go wide, and so do his, and it doesn’t take long after he sees me for his face to do that funny thermometer thing where he blushes right up his neck, right up his cheeks until it ends at the tips of his ears.

 

And from the first time I meet him, I can’t stop smiling.

 

“Who are you?” he practically yells at me, turning in a fruitless attempt to hide his goofy pajamas.

 

“What are you _wearing?_ ” I spit, pointing at his pj’s and letting out the most wild cackle of my entire life. “And… Wheel of Fortune?”

 

“H-Hey!” he stutters defensively, and he turns an even deeper shade of red. “This show is relaxing!”

 

I close the door behind me, pad across the floor, then plop down across from him. “I’m not judging you.”

 

He raises an eyebrow at me over his shoulder, arms looped around his chest with his knees pulled up tight. His face is still burning, and it makes me feel kind of bad for laughing, but not _that_ bad.

 

“Alright, so maybe I’m judging you _a little,_ ” I reason, and he groans in exasperation, falling over onto his side in the fetal position. “Come on though. You were asking for it. You know it’s like seven o’clock, right? Why do you already have your pajamas on? Have you been wearing your pajamas all day?”

 

He sniffs. “Maybe.”

 

“Listen,” I start trying to reason with him, “I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life.”

 

“I don’t even know you,” he mumbles. “Why are you even here?”

 

I sigh. “We’re neighbors. My dad wanted me to come say hi.”

 

He’s quiet for a long time, and I’m not really sure what to say. I’m actually surprised at how much I’ve been running my mouth – I’m not usually the type of person to talk to much to someone I hardly know. And, sure, this isn’t exactly how I expected this whole ‘go meet the sad orphan next door’ thing to go, but it could be so much worse. He could be wearing a Jar Jar Binks shirt, for example, like I’ve seen some kids wear to school. I don’t know who in the whole entire world would wear a Jar Jar Binks shirt, but I would rather walk around in public with a kid wearing a fuzzy baby blue onesie than a kid wearing a Jar Jar Binks shirt.

 

Don’t ask me to explain it. Just know that Jar Jar is the actual worst.

 

It’s strange that I start thinking about Star Wars, because this lull in the conversation has me looking around his room for evidence that a kid actually is living here. There’s not much, to be perfectly honest. There’s the TV set, a bed with a plain brown comforter, and a book shelf beside it. It doesn’t look very full at all, but what there _is_ on it are movies (looks like chick flicks, romantic comedy-types) (barf), CDs (Aaron Carter, Spice Girls, and N*Sync) (double barf), and…

 

Comic books?

 

I scoot across the floor while Marco’s still paralyzed by embarrassment to get a closer look. Upon closer inspection, I can feel my soul start to leave my body. There, on the top of the stack, is _Star Wars: A New Hope, Vol. 4_. I lift it gingerly, holding it in my hands before leafing through it. There, I find dog eared pages, on pages he probably thought were really cool. They totally are cool, too.

 

Underneath it, there’s the third one. Then beneath that, the second and first volumes. My new next door neighbor has _the Star Wars comics._ He might be crazy, but he also might be really cool.

 

Once I start to pick deeper through the stack, however, I realize that no, this kid isn’t just cool. He’s awesome. There’s Green Lantern comics, X-Men, TMNT, and that’s not even half of it. Some of it’s about stuff I don’t recognize, but that almost makes it cooler.

 

“Hey,” I start, “Marco.”

 

He’s still on his side, turned away from me. He might actually be paralyzed.

 

“What,” he says, finally, his tone flat.

 

“You have really cool comics,” I tell him, trying to make my own voice sound not so stupidly excited, except I am. I _so_ am.

 

There’s a brief moment of quiet… and then, from across the room, I see him scoot himself upright and look over his shoulder. “You like comics?”

 

“Um,” I start again, trying to play it off cool as I flip through a volume of TMNT, “yeah. You could say that.”

 

This catches his interest. From out of the corner of my eye, I see him perk up a little, crane his neck to get a better look at what I’ve got, and just as someone completes a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune – with the sound of fanfare serving as his cue – he begins to crawl across the floor toward me. When he’s close enough, I sneak a quick look.

 

My eyes flash to his hands, small and balled up in the carpet, just barely peeking out from the oversized onesie sleeves. Then, they travel upward, taking in his shoulders, the way they seem to pull forward; the pink on his cheeks, and then the freckles that splay across them, across the bridge of his nose. His eyes are a simple brown, but somehow, in this dimly-lit bedroom, they seem to shine.

 

“What’s your favorite?” he asks, and his voice is so small.

 

I gulp. Suddenly, when the focus is turned on me, I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? I don’t know him. I don’t have to impress him in any way, he’s just the kid who lives next door. Why do I care at all?

 

I shouldn’t. But I do.

 

“Uh,” I say, running a hand over my poofy brown hair, “Star Wars.”

 

Marco stops. “Did you like The Phantom Menace?”

 

I almost choke. “Do _you?_ ”

 

I’m nervous he’s going to say yes, because all the kids in my class who “like” Star Wars said they did, but that broke them from my circle of trust. I’m nervous because even though this kid is super lame, part of me wants to like him and I’m not sure why.

 

But then he shakes his head, _hard,_ side to side as he purses his lips. “My dad and I don’t want to believe that movie ever existed.”

 

That’s when I know something for certain: I’m going to really like this kid.

 

“Marco?” I start, putting the comic book down and scooting toward where he sits across from me. I can’t stop myself when I wrap an arm around his shoulders, when my mouth breaks out into this crazy sort of lunatic grin that I haven’t smiled since I can’t remember when. “I can tell that we are going to be friends.”

 

He laughs, lightly, and it vibrates through his chest and jiggles the chubbiness of his cheeks. I laugh too, and when I pull my arm away, he wipes quickly at his eyes. I don’t ask why.

 

“Um, wh… what was your name?” he asks.

 

“Jean,” I tell him with authority, with a proudness I’ve never felt when meeting another kid before. “Jean Kirschtein.”

 

“I’m Marco Bodt,” Marco provides without having to ask, then adds quickly, “I think I’m lucky you’re my next door neighbor.”

 

“Yeah.” I feel something bursting inside my chest, like a tickle. Like warmth. “And I’m lucky you hate Episode One.”

 

* * *

 

I should probably preface the rest of this with one simple fact: Marco Bodt is a 100%, certified, Grade-A weirdo. And here's why.

 

1\. He listens to Backstreet Boys and Enya. 

2\. He keeps trying to get me to play Magic: The Gathering with him.

3\. I found one of those shower caps in his bathroom once, you know the kind you wear when you're taking a bubble bath? Yeah, one of those. And,

4\. There was even a rubber duckie tucked in the back of the bottom drawer, like he was trying to keep that some dark secret.

 

(But don't get me started on his collection of fuzzy onesies. I try not to think about those.)

 

Also, if you're wondering, no - I am not a snoop. I just like to know what kind of person I'm dealing with here. Granny said the best way to tell a person is from their bathroom, so sometimes I do a little digging when I go over to people's houses who I don't know so well.

 

Marco is definitely nice, though. I will say that about him. He's like, sickeningly sweet. So sweet it hurts your gums, like you're about to get a toothache if you spend one more minute with him. But I guess, like most sweet things, hanging out with Marco is also addicting. Which I hate to admit.

  
His room is located on the western wall of their upstairs, and mine is on the east side. Basically what this means is that by some miracle, our bedroom windows align. I gave him one of my walkie-talkies, but they're kind of crappy so they don't get amazing service when you're more than 15 feet away from the other person. Those were kind of a bust.

 

It's the last day of winter break that Marco and I decide to build an R2-D2 out of snow in my backyard. It was honestly mostly my idea, and I probably could have made it myself, except for some reason, I kind of wanted him to help me make it. It is a big project after all, and Marco is kind of artistic. 

 

(That's another thing I learn about him - he's got all these pictures in drawers, and some pinned up over his bed in the loft where his room's at. Loads of pictures, though, and not of just any particular thing. Some more recent ones of his grandma knitting. Some of what I think is probably before - you know, the whole "parents tragically dying" thing, which he still hasn't talked to me about. And then there's just some of landscapes. A beach. Some epic rims on the wheel of a car I seriously doubt belonged to Marco's parents. Sunset over the top of a house I've never seen before. Rain streaking down a windowpane. All of them are Polaroids.)

 

I knock on Marco's door with my hand encapsulated by one of dad's oversized but extremely soft and fuzzy mittens, and almost immediately I hear footsteps pounding toward the door.

 

And there's Marco. His cheeks are flushed, eyes are big and bright. I get the feeling he's been waiting, for some reason. It makes me feel good. I smile super duper wide when I see him, and he's wearing a shirt with Wolverine on it. (Two big thumbs up.)

 

"Hey, dude," I greet him, kicking my boots off on the already snow-covered welcome mat. "Wanna come build something with me?"

 

Marco's face lights up even brighter. His hair even seems to flutter a little. "Yeah! Of course! Let me just tell my grandma." He starts to move away, but then doubles back and holds the door out for me, letting me inside. "It's cold out there," he explains, shivering a little at the wind, and I laugh, following in after him.

 

He bounds away from me into the kitchen, and when he comes back, he goes, "Let's go. My grandma said she's going to make us hot cocoa when we're done." 

 

I don't have to wait long for him to bundle up; he's clearly got this down to a science. "Where'd you used to live, Marco?"

 

"Before here?" I nod. "We used to live in Maine. It got super cold there in the winter."

 

"Where's Maine?" I ask, sort of feeling stupid because I'm not very good with geography. Marco doesn't make me feel stupid though.

 

"Oh, it's like," he stops, motions way above his head with his hand, "way, way up at the top of the United States, on the east coast. We used to live a couple miles south of Van Buren. That's toward the up-top of the state."

 

"Cool."

 

We run out the front door and circle around to my backyard. Usually, Dad would want to be down here building stuff with us. That's what dad does, he's like a builder. Construction, snow plowing, all that kind of stuff - except last night, he got called in to work because we had a huge snowstorm, and he didn't get home until 8:00 this morning. I just decided to let him sleep.

 

Once we’re situated perfectly in the middle of the yard, I explain to Marco my plan to construct the ultimate R2-D2. He nods every once in a while as I use hand gestures to demonstrate how we’re going to make it, and when I’m done, he draws a circle in the snow.

 

“This big?” he asks, and I cheese.

 

“Perfect.”

 

* * *

 

We’re outside about an hour before I can sense something is wrong with Marco. We finished the R2-D2, and it’s okay. Not as good as I thought it would be, but definitely not bad. We started trying to construct a snowman but once we got the snowballs all lined up, we realized we had made it too big and we couldn’t lift the second one onto the first. It just kind of crumpled in our mittens like sad powdered sugar.

 

But it’s when we sort of start getting cold, and I look over at Marco to find he’s in the middle of a snow angel he just made, and he’s just lying there staring up at the white sky. His cheeks are bright pink and his little front hairs that poke out from the bottom of his hat cling to his forehead.

 

I watch him for a second. My butt’s all wet from sitting in the snow but I don’t even think about how cold it is when I see the look on Marco’s face. Seeing the way he looks is like getting clocked in the eye. Like when you get yelled at by the teacher in class and everyone’s looking at you. Like not getting to see the sky pass by on the long flight home.

 

It’s just the worst.

 

“Hey,” I call over to him from across the yard. He doesn’t look up. “Hey, Marco,” I try again, but still no reply. I get up from the snow, walk over to where he’s lying motionless, and plop down beside him.

 

“Are you okay?” I ask, but somehow I feel like I already know the answer. I’ve never seen him act like this, but then again, I haven’t seen him that many times. I mean, I would consider him my best friend, but I know there’s more than one side to him – more than just smiling and goofy and fun.

 

Marco sniffs. “I used to make snow angels with my mom when she was still alive.”

 

It seems like the whole world goes quiet. I just sit there for a minute, not even sure what to say. Any words I might have spoke dry all up in my throat and it’s like I’m choking. My eyes start to pinch. I don’t know why or how, but for some reason, in this moment, I feel just as sad as Marco looks.

 

“It just happened last month,” Marco sniffs again. “It’s weird, but I almost don’t even believe it happened? This is just a vacation, is how it feels.”

 

“Marco,” I start, but I don’t know at all how to finish.

 

He pinches his eyes shut tight, then pulls his arms over his face and lets out a wail. It’s all muffled by his puffy jacket, but then his shoulders start to shake and I can hear his breathing go ragged.

 

I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been around someone who’s cried like this. I don’t know what to do at all, how to comfort people, how to make them feel happy again. I realize I’m totally worthless, like, I want to help him but I just can’t figure out how, and it makes my stomach hurt so bad. Like I’m going to get sick. Or pop a vessel in my heart.

 

My eyes fall to my hands. I stare at them for a long time, and then I look up at Marco, who is on his back, shaking and crying under his jacket sleeve, and. And. His pants are probably wet, too.

 

I hold out a hand for him. “Hey, Marco. It’s… it’ll be okay.” That’s what they say in the movies, right? “I’m here for you.”

 

Marco breathes in four shaky breaths, coughs, then pulls his sleeve away from his eyes. He looks up at me with his whole face burnt red, tears falling down to his ears, his mouth a hard line like he’s trying to keep bottling it in.

 

Then he sees my hand – palm up. He somehow manages to sit upright, and when he looks down at his own hand, balled up in a fist, he relaxes it and puts it in mine.

 

A car revs its engine at the end of the street. Somewhere, bells chime.

 

And suddenly, it’s not silent anymore.

 

My fingers curl around his. He squeezes my hand through my mitten and I squeeze his back. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never helped anyone. Not to say that I’m necessarily helping him now. He’s still crying and he’s still shaking and his parents are still dead. He’s still alone, living at his grandma’s house and he still doesn’t know what he was going to get for Christmas.

 

At least now, though, he has a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cue me handing out cookies to each reader that passes the finish line gOOD JOB EVERYONE i know it was rough but you made it!!!!!!! (i hope you enjoyed the first chapter!!! the first... of many...) ♡♡♡


	2. dark come soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about how long it took to get this chapter out, life sort of happened and things were crazy for a while. Anyway, this is from Marco's point of view, as per usual, and I hope that you guys enjoy it! We appreciate the feedback and overall support we have gotten so far, it's really wonderful to have people saying that reading our new story is like coming home. 
> 
> It feels the same way to us! <3

 

"Don't forget a million miles for me,  
Safe and another day passed by me,  
Everything I love get back for me now,  
Everyone I love I need you now."

_Dark Come Soon – Tegan and Sara_

* * *

“This year is gonna suck.”

From where I’m sitting on the swing, I look up at Jean who’s on top of the monkey bars. He’s got a frown on his face and his eyes are cast downward at the ground far below him. It always makes me so nervous when he climbs up there, because last year, Eren fell and broke his arm and it was very scary. He had a cast that we all signed, but he said it hurt a lot.

“We don’t have the same classes, and this is _middle school_ we’re talking about!” Jean goes on, sighing as he does. “What if the other kids are mean to you? I won’t be around to fight them!”

I laugh a little, kicking my feet deep into the wood chips, revealing dirt underneath. “That’s never happened even once,” I remind him. “We’ll still ride the same bus, and have lunch together.”

“I guess…” he says reluctantly.

We hang out at our old elementary school’s playground for a little while longer. Jean’s convinced this year will be bad, because it’s the first year since I moved here that we don’t have the same class and it’s even worse because it’s at a new school building altogether. But I’m sort of excited, not about us not having the same class, but because middle school sounds so cool! We have lockers, and different classes with different teachers and we get to choose what clubs to join like band, or choir or science.

I already kinda want to join the science club, but I know Jean isn’t interested in it.

“It’s starting to get dark out,” I notice, getting up from the swings. The street lamps are starting to turn on, which means that it’s time to walk home before it gets too dark to see.

Jean hops down from the monkey bars and grins proudly as he catches up with me. I shake my head, voicing my concern about him breaking his arm again, and he rolls his eyes. “Eren is a wienie, that’s why he broke his arm.”

“Still,” I argue.

“Come on!” he says, running ahead of me. “I bet I’ll beat you back home!”

He always does, but I agree to race him anyway. He’s shorter and faster than me and he loves to race because he knows he wins. I let him have it, mostly because I get to make fun of him for being so short and tiny still. I’ve grown a lot this last summer. Grandma’s been taking all my measurements for the past five years since I started living with her, and she says that I’m probably going to keep growing for a long time and be really tall, just like my dad. I sure hope so.

I start running after Jean, my feet hitting the pavement sounds loud in my ears as my heart starts to beat faster in my chest. He’s way ahead of me, having gotten a head start, but I push myself forward and try to close the distance between us. He’s laughing, his arms spread out from his sides, feeling the wind on his fingertips and through his brown hair. I’m sweating at my hairline, and I can feel it drip down my face as I breathe heavily.

“I win!” Jean shouts triumphantly as we reach our houses. I put my hands on my knees to try and catch my breath, and he comes around to pat my back in mock sympathy. “Better luck next time, Marco.”

I peak up at him through my hair and he’s got this big, goofy grin on his face, like this is his biggest accomplishment in the world. Even if I’m a little sad about losing (for like, the gazillionth time), seeing him proud like that makes me feel happy.

“Want me to ask my dad if we can order pizza?” Jean asks now, leading me up the driveway to his house. The front porch light is on, and I can see through the front window into the living room, where his dad is sitting on the couch with his glasses on, watching something on the TV. Jean’s dog, Little Girl, is curled up next to him, sleeping.“We can read comics or something!”

I nod my head vigorously, following him inside. Mr. Kirschtein waves from his spot on the couch, picking up the remote to turn the volume down.

“Hi boys,” he says with a warm smile. “Have fun playing outside?”

Mr. Kirschtein reminds me of my dad. He’s tall and his hands are always warm, and he sometimes wears a funny apron when he cooks dinner for us. He also really likes superheroes, so he’s always excited to drive me and Jean to the comic book store in town and for ice cream at Dairy Queen afterwards. He’s so nice and he sends me home with stuff from his garden all the time, which Grandma really loves to use for her cooking.

I’m a little jealous of Jean, because I mostly really miss my dad. I bet he and Mr. Kirschtein would be best friends because they’re so alike.

Jean climbs up on the couch next to his dad and leans over to whisper to him. His dad sighs and gets up from the couch, asking what we want on our pizza as he picks up the phone to order it.

 

“Score!” Jean whispers to me, fist pumping the air.

 

Once the pizza is ordered, Jean and I climb up the stairs on all fours to get to his room. His room is a mess – there are clothes scattered all over the floor, Pokémon games for his GameBoy by his TV stand, and comics opened to random pages everywhere. In his closet, in a big bin, are all of his dinosaurs. When we play with those, I’m always the herbivores and he’s always the carnivores, so he gets to eat mine. It’s not fair and last time we played, I stomped home angrily because he ate my favorite one – a brachiosaurus. I’m still kinda mad about that.

 

“What ones do you wanna read?” he asks excitedly, pulling out more from his bookshelves. “I’m kind of in the mood for X-Men!”

 

I groan, “But we read those ones _last time_!”

 

Jean stops, holding all of them in his hands. “So?” he says. “We didn’t finish them yet, technically! We still have to read the Alpha Fight!”

 

“What about…” I pause and pick up my favorite, holding it out. “Spider-Man!”

 

“I don’t like Spider-Man,” he lies, crossing his arms across his chest stubbornly. “’Sides, I hate spiders and he’s creepy.”

 

“Well I am really sick of X-Men,” I counter, equally as stubborn. “So _I’m_ going to read Spider-Man!”

 

“Fine! Be that way!” Jean shouts turning around and sitting on the floor with his back against his bedframe, opening the Alpha Fight volumes of X-Men. He takes his time opening them, making sure that I see him do it carefully, in case I change my mind. I huff and turn away, sitting over by the door against the wall, crossing my legs crisscross applesauce and getting comfy with Spider-Man in my lap.

 

We read our separate comics in silence for a little while, the only sound in the room the turning of a page every so often. The books aren’t super long, so we both finish around the same time, and, before we reach for another we look up at each other to see if maybe the other changed their mind.

 

“Hmph,” Jean says, snatching up his next comic to start reading.

 

I stick my tongue out at him when he’s not looking and go to get my next one. There’s a knock on the door, and Mr. Kirschtein pokes his head into the room to alert us that the pizza is here and to come down and eat.

 

“Can’t we just eat it in my room, Dad?” Jean begs as we both head downstairs to get some fresh pizza. The whole kitchen smells like it, and I inhale deeply with a pleased smile on my face.

 

“No, because last time you forgot to clean up,” Mr. Kirschtein says, handing us each a plate, “and we had that ant problem, remember?”

 

Jean pouts but soon forgets all about it as he grabs two slices of the pizza and puts them on his plate. I’m next, so I grab the two that were next to his previous slices, and follow him to the table so we can eat.

 

“So which comics are you reading today?” Mr. Kirschtein asks curiously, getting a slice for himself.

 

I look at Jean and he looks at me. We’re both quiet for a minute.

 

Finally, I sigh a little and say, “X-Men, the Alpha Fight.”

 

Mr. Kirschtein hums his approval as he starts to do the dishes at the sink. I turn back to look at Jean, who’s got this smug smile on his face. _I win_ , he’s saying in his head. I stick my tongue out at him again and go back to my pizza. He might win this time, but next time… we _will_ read Spider-Man.

* * *

I never did get to go back to school with Jean.

 

* * *

Polaroid camera at hand, I rush downstairs so I can go to Jean’s house. I’d been watching from my window all day, waiting for him to come home so we could go play at the playground together. His dad and him had to go visit his grandma for lunch, which seemed like it took forever.

“I’m going over to Jean’s house!” I call out to Grandma as I start to lace up my shoes real fast, eager to play on the swings and monkey bars.

“Marco….”

I freeze. Her voice is faint sounding, and scary and quiet and worried. Suddenly, I can hear my breathing and it sounds loud and my heart drops to my tummy and I’m overwhelmed with this strange tingly feeling. Kind of like when you foot falls asleep and you walk on it and it’s tingly and painful at the same time.

And all you can do is wait for it to pass.

“Marco,” her voice rasps again.

I turn around and start to walk toward the kitchen, my camera clutched tightly between my shaking fingers. I’m afraid of what I’ll see when I turn the corner, and I’m scared of the way her voice sounds. In this moment, I wish more than anything that I could be brave like Jean always is.

I close my eyes for just a second before I turn the corner and step on her cane. Then I find her laying on the floor and there’s blood dripping down her forehead, and on the floor and on her wrinkled hands, staining her skin. My parents faces flash in my mind, the wrecked car, the blood stained seats…

“Marco,” she whispers as a few tears trickle down her cheeks, “you have to call for help.”

I blink a few times before hastily grabbing the phone on the counter and dialing Jean’s house number.I’m frantic and my nose is starting to run as tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision. Grandma on her back, blood, her cane… I don’t want to see it.

I don’t want to.

“Hello?” It’s Mr. Kirschtein.

“I-I need help!” I spit out quickly, using my sleeve to wipe away the tears before they fall too far. Grandma moans in pain and my heart beats real hard in my chest and I squeeze my camera tighter in my other hand and kneel down so my knees are to my chest and I’m as small as I can get. “My grandma fell and I-I-I don’t… I don’t know what to do!”

“I’ll be right there, Marco,” he says hurriedly. “Just stay right where you are, okay?”

I nod, even though he can’t see and hang up the phone. Slowly, I crawl to Grandma and hold her hand, because I don’t know what else to do.

“It will be okay,” she tries to tell me, but I know she’s scared, too.

The tingly feeling still hasn’t passed so I just hold her hand tighter, waiting.

* * *

The hospital is even scarier.

 

There are people talking really fast about stuff that I don’t understand, and no one is talking _to_ me, more like over me. They rush Grandma off where I can’t follow, and I’m told to sit in the waiting room until they know more about what’s going on.

 

Mr. Kirschtein is trying his hardest to help me feel better, but I’m just really overwhelmed and worried for Grandma, so I can’t stop crying.

 

“Is there anyone I can call, Marco?” he asks patiently, patting my shoulder in a comforting way. I shake my head, not really sure who Grandma would want to come to the hospital for her besides me. “Stay here, okay? I’m going to talk to the doctors for just a minute.”

 

When he leaves to find Grandma’s doctor, I wipe at my eyes with my already-wet sleeves from previously wiping away tears. The waiting room is this weird brown color, and there are lots of toys for little kids to play with and magazines for adults to look at. But what am I supposed to do?

 

I just want to find Grandma and wait with her until she’s better and we can go back home.

 

Wondering the halls of the hospital, I look in through windows at lots of neat people. Some are watching TV, some are eating pudding and some have visitors and flowers and cards. There are nurses and doctors constantly moving around me, running by wheeling around big carts of stuff to rooms where beeping noises are growing louder and louder.

 

There’s another waiting room, and a mom and little girl are talking to a doctor. They look sad and their shoulders slump forward and the girl starts to cry. That was me five years ago, when the doctor told me and Grandma that my parents died.

 

I turn away quickly, not wanting to see anymore. I just want to go home.

 

After a few minutes, I start to think that maybe I’m lost and that has me worried that Grandma won’t be able to find me. Before I can get too frantic, I see Mr. Kirschtein’s back, and he’s talking to the doctor in the white coat about Grandma.

 

“…doesn’t look so good,” the doctor is saying. “She’s got a subdural hematoma, and we’re going to need to operate on it as soon as possible.”

 

“I see,” he said softly. “Does she have someone I can call? For her grandson? He’s living with her right now.”

 

I don’t hear anything else besides the sound of my feet hitting the tiles as I run the opposite way. Away from the doctor and the surgery and Grandma and all of it. I run faster than I ever did before, and if Jean was here, I’m sure I would win this race.

 

I run until I’m outside and then I keep going until I’m coughing and my legs are wobbly. And then I find the nearest bench and sit down, closing my eyes and clasping my hands together in my lap.

 

 _Please don’t leave me, Grandma,_ I beg as tears drip from my eyes again. I don’t bother wiping them away, there are too many and my sleeves are already wet. _What am I going to do?_

 

* * *

 

Trees blur together as I stare out the window, my forehead resting against the glass. It’s silent in the car – no radio, no talking from Mr. Kirschtein. Nothing.

 

 _I’m so sorry,_ they’d said.

 

I can still hear the beeping heart monitor in my head, can still see her laying in the bed with bandages around her head and a small, warm smile on her lips. Her hand soothingly touching my cheek and telling me that she was proud, that I did a good job. That she was okay.

 

 _There was a complication with the surgery,_ they’d said.

 

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling carsick as the beeping heart monitor in my head goes flat. She starts shaking violently and I’m scared as I’m pushed away by doctors shouting loudly and using big metal paddles and shocking her. But she doesn’t wake up.

 

_Time of death, 7:42 PM._

 

* * *

 

“I called your Aunt Zeta,” Mr. Kirschtein says as we step into his house. I take off my shoes and he hangs up my jacket for me. “She’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

 

I nod slowly, “Okay.”

 

“Jean’s upstairs,” he tells me and as I take the first step up, he puts a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Marco. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

 

I look at him and see the worry wrinkles on his forehead, and his warm hazel eyes are sincere. I nod again and thank him before I climb the stairs and move to the bedroom at the end of the hall. From the other side, I can hear the TV on, and I know he’s probably playing video games.

 

Softly, I knock on the door and wait until I hear the sounds from the TV pause and then the door flings open revealing Jean in his nightshirt and shorts.

 

“Marco!” he says, relieved.

 

His expression quickly changes when he sees the tears well up in my eyes, my shoulders slumped forward. His mouth opens to ask me what’s wrong, but before he can, I just tell him.

 

“My grandma died,” I whisper, my voice catching in the back of my throat.

 

The words feel strange and wrong as they fall out of my mouth. It doesn’t feel real yet, but there’s this knot in my tummy and I want to cry some more but I’m not sure if I can. I just stare at him for a long minute, unsure of where to go from here and what to do.

 

Jean silently reaches for my hand, his eyes sad as he hugs me tight. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s okay because neither of us know what to say. We stay like that for a long time, and when he finally pulls away, he has me sit on the bed while he digs around his dresser. He hands me a comfy shirt and pair of shorts to borrow to sleep in.

 

The thought of going home to the empty house makes my tummy hurt and tears well up in my eyes again. All I’d wanted all day was to go home, but now I’m not sure what home is.

 

When I return to his room, changed into the clothes, he takes my hand again and we climb into his bed. Jean wraps the blanket around both of us, and he rolls over so he’s facing me.

 

“Goodnight, Marco,” he whispers.

 

“Night, Jean,” I whisper back.

 

In the quiet darkness, I can still hear the flat line on the monitor.

* * *

Mr. Kirschtein makes us pancakes and bacon for breakfast.

I push cut up pancakes around my plate, not feeling very hungry even if they are my favorite. Jean scarfs his down and asks for seconds, and his father gives him a stern look.

“Hey, Marco,” Jean says slowly, “aren’t you hungry?”

“O-oh, I’m sorry!” I say quickly, taking bite after bite until my mouth is so full of pancakes that I can’t say anything to anyone. Mr. Kirschtein tells me that it’s okay if I’m not very hungry right now and to slow down, but I don’t want him to feel sad like I do. So I eat everything on my plate so fast that I can’t feel how full I am until I’m already finished.

“I called your aunt yesterday,” Mr. Kirschtein says to me in a really soft voice. Like he’s sorry he had do it and that he doesn’t want me to start crying again. “She should be here soon. She left this morning.”

I nod slowly, staring at my hands in my lap.

“She’s going to be your legal guardian for now, so I’m sure she’ll talk to you more about that,” he continues, in the same quiet and soft voice. He’s trying not to hurt my feelings but it hurts, anyway.

Then, he adds, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

I say it so fast, like it’s a reflex and not at all how I really feel. I know it’s not his fault and he shouldn’t be sorry, but it’s not okay. My heart feels so sad and I just want to lay under the blankets and not think about anything for a while. Even though I’m full of pancakes, I feel empty.

Why does everyone I love end up leaving me all alone?

“C’mon Marco,” Jean whispers, taking my hand. I trail behind him aimlessly as he leads me back upstairs to his room. He hands me my clothes from yesterday to change into and gets dressed himself.

I hand his clothes back and he holds the shirt up and it’s a little bigger than it was when I first put it on. I apologize but he assures me it’s okay, and to try and keep me from having another total meltdown, he puts it on to show me.

It’s so big on him now that it hangs off his small body awkwardly in weird places. The neck hole is drooping and showing some of his pale chest; the arm holds hang a little from his small arms and the whole torso part looks baggy. He makes a face, realizing how much I must have stretched it out.

And somehow, I start laughing.

It’s a small laugh at first, breathless sounding and weird, like I haven’t laughed in forever. Then it starts to really bubble up from my chest and then I’m laughing so hard that I have tears in my eyes and I can’t do anything but point and continue to laugh. It’s weird and it makes my belly feel warm.

Jean stares at me like I’ve totally lost it and maybe I have. I have no idea why I find it so funny but I keep laughing, anyway.

Eventually, he cracks a smile and laughs a little, too. He takes the shirt off and puts a new one on instead. I wipe at my eyes, my laughter starting to take on a new sound and feeling. My chest aches, my cheeks hurt from the laughing, and tears are falling so fast that I can’t keep up with them anymore. Then I start sobbing, my face in my hands, and I just can’t stop.

“Sorry about your shirt,” I say choke out, hardly able to get the words out.

“Marco,” he says, coming over and putting his arm around my shoulders. “It’s okay. I’ll keep it for when you come over and spend the night, okay? It’s okay, I promise.”

I take a big, gasping breath and turn around to hug him real tight.

“I don’t wanna move,” I cry into his shoulder, holding onto him as tight as I can. “Y-you’re the only family I really have and-and I don’t wanna be so far away!”

Jean hugs me back just as tightly, as if we’re both holding each other from drifting apart.

“I don’t want you to go, either,” he whispers and even his voice sounds choked.

We stay like that for a while, both not wanting to let the other go because we know that’s it. That we won’t be next door to each other anymore, and we won’t be able to spend every day together anymore. Everything is going to change again, and I find myself wishing that Jean lost just once. That he wasn’t right when he said that this year would suck.

Suddenly, not being in the same class seems too scary.

* * *

Aunt Zeta is nice, but strange and she has a weird smell that lingers when she walks around. We spend the day at home, where she tries to comfort me by patting me on the knee and saying she was sorry while using a tissue to wipe away her own tears. She tells me what happened to Grandma, but in a different way so she doesn’t hurt my feelings.

She lives up north, 4 hours away from here. She says that she’s got a room for me and that if I want to, we can paint it and make it look real nice.

Aunt Zeta also has 12 cats – Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricorn, Aquarius and Pisces. One for all of the zodiac signs, because she says that she couldn’t just have a few of them.

“They’re all sweet kitties that I saved from bad homes,” she tells me, smiling pleasantly when she thinks of them. “I bet you’ll really love them! They love to play and snuggle. Except Aries – his name suits him very well and if you pet him for too long, he bites.”

I stare at her for a few minutes while she starts humming, packing things away. Some she would take with us, but most of the stuff was going to be donated.

I sigh, putting my head down on the table. I don’t want a whole dozen cats, I just want everything to stay just like how it was.

* * *

Jean comes over to help me pack, and in the end, we both just look through all of my stuff and laugh at old pictures. Aunt Zeta brings up some plates with dinner (she doesn’t cook, she explains, handing us some carry-out burgers and fries) and chastises us for not having gotten much work done. We promise to finish it by the end of the night so we can pack the car in the morning before the funeral.

“She doesn’t seem so bad,” Jean says, trying to be optimistic as possible.

I shrug a little, picking up another fry and tossing it into my mouth. “She’s okay.”

We’re quiet for a minute, both thinking the same thing. _It’s just not the same_.

“She has 12 cats,” I tell him, standing back up and starting to put my clothes into a box. I already have my funeral clothes laid out – similar to the ones I wore five years ago for Mom and Dad’s funeral, but because I’m bigger now, we had to get new ones. “She’s… a crazy cat lady.”

Jean snorts and tries his best not to laugh, but it’s kind of funny.

After that he starts helping me pack all of my clothes and toys into my boxes. I pick up the polaroid camera, not wanting to pack it away just yet.

Instead, I turn and snap a quick picture of Jean holding up one of my sweaters to bundle up and toss into a box. When the flash goes, he snaps his head over to look at me.

“Did you just take a picture of me?” he asks as I pull out the picture, waving it around so it dries and develops.

“Maybe,” I tell him in response.

“If you gotta take a picture, take a _good_ one,” he says, flashing me a big cheesy smile with a peace sign. I take another picture, laughing at him.

“You’re a dork, Jean,” I inform him, looking at both of the pictures. He comes around to look at them too, laughing at the one with the peace sign. “I like this one better, though. Looks more like you, and I wanna remember you just like you are.”

Jean looks at me then, and he takes the camera and turns it to face us.

“Then let’s take one together, too.”

We both smile a little, but it’s obvious we’re sad. It kind of feels like I’m moving to another planet, like we’ll never see each other again. The thought makes my tummy swirl uncomfortably, and I want to cry again. But I’ve cried a lot and I don’t want the last time Jean sees me to be with tears in my eyes.

_Snap_.

* * *

Grandma’s funeral is at the little church in town that she went to every Sunday the whole time that I lived with her, and probably a long time before that, too. It’s small and white and has big windows that have Jesus and stuff painted all over them, but it’s also sort of run-down like it’s been around forever.

Aunt Zeta leads me into the church, her arm around my shoulders to keep me steady as we make our way to the front to meet with the pastor. His name is Jim and he smells funny, but he says he’s sorry for our loss and shakes my hand and it seems really nice and comforting.

The church fills up with family and all of Grandma’s bingo friends. Jean and Mr. Kirschtein come in and give me hugs, and they sit next to me while Aunt Zeta talks with everyone and thanks them for coming. A lot of people hug me, but I don’t know them and it makes me feel weird and sad.

Pastor Jim has us sing all of Grandma’s favorite hymns and then we get to walk up and say goodbye to her in the coffin.

I haven’t seen Grandma since she was still in the hospital and awake and telling me how proud she was of me. _Did Grandma know she was going to die when she said that to me?_ I think as Aunt Zeta takes my hand to lead me up to the coffin. _Did she already know?_

“I’ll take care of Marco for you, so you take care of my brother for me,” Aunt Zeta whispers to Grandma in the coffin. “Rest in peace, Betty.”

She turns to me now, a small smile on her face, like she’s scared and unsure, too. She gently squeezes my hand and I step up, looking down into the coffin.

Grandma looks the same as usual – her white hair is curled and nice, and she’s got her peach lipstick on that sometimes she got on her teeth on accident. She’s wearing a nice black dress that I remember seeing in her closet in a plastic wrap a long time ago, when Jean and I were playing hide n’ seek.

“You can say whatever you want, Marco,” Aunt Zeta tells me softly.

But I have no idea what I should say. I choke up, trying not to cry because just like the last time I did this, there’s too many things – and I can’t get any of them right in my head. I can’t figure out what’s best to say, so I don’t say anything at all.

 

* * *

 

This is the last time I ever see my grandma.

 

* * *

 

This doesn’t feel real.

 

Standing in the open door way of my old room, it doesn’t feel like home to me anymore. All of my things are packed away in boxes, all the posters and polaroid pictures taken down and stowed safely for the drive up north. For five years, I’ve lived in this room and in those five years, I got taller and more comfortable and happy.

 

But now, everything is different.

 

I step around a few boxes to look out the window, and just like always, I see Jean next door through his window. A sense of fear floods my stomach at the realization that: 1) I have to start all over again and, 2) I have to live very far away from the only person that feels like home to me.

 

 _You did this before, Marco,_ I try and tell myself, turning to pick up the first of several boxes to take down to the car. _You started over before, after you moved here when Mom and Dad died. And you can do it again._

 

I frown, going downstairs slowly with the box held up under my chin. I did do it before, but it’s not that I _can_ do it, it’s that I have no other choice. I _have_ to do it again.

 

Aunt Zeta’s got her ’93 Chevy wagon parked outside with the trunk open. The back is already full with several boxes of things we’ve planned on keeping. There’s barely enough room for my four boxes of stuff (two of clothes, one of toys, one of bedding/curtains and the last one of sentimentals like my polaroid pictures and posters and anything else that I didn’t want to part with), but we manage to fit it all. We hire a company to come pick up the rest of her belongings and sell the house, so we don’t have to return again once we get up north to West Branch, were Aunt Zeta lives.

 

Standing outside in their drive way is Mr. Kirschtein and Jean.

 

I walk across the lawn to them and hug Mr. Kirschtein really tightly. A few tears fall down my face and I can’t help it – he’s been the closest thing to a Dad that I’ve had for the past five years.

 

“Your aunt and I already discussed meeting half way every so often so you guys can still get together,” he tells me, his hand smoothing over my hair comfortingly. “Call us when you’re there and settled in, okay?”

 

I nod and wipe at my face, sniffling. “Okay, I will,” I promise.

 

Jean hugs me really tight, and I hug him back just as tight. His fingers twirl up in my shirt, wrinkling the fabric but my tears are making his shirt get wet and neither of us care about that.

 

“Don’t get a new best friend when you’re there,” he tells me, his voice cracking as he does. “I won’t ever forgive you if you do.”

 

“I won’t, I promise!” I say, sniffling loudly. “Don’t let any of the big kids beat you up, because I won’t be there to get you out of the lockers.”

 

Jean laughs a little and we pull away, both of us wiping at our faces. “What makes you think I’ll get stuffed into a locker?”

 

“Just a hunch, I guess,” I reply with a shrug and small smile.

 

“Yeah, well,” Jean sniffs, “I would say the same to you, but you don’t have to really worry about getting stuffed in lockers.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

Jean smiles a little. Smug. “’Cuz you’re too big.”

 

“Shut up,” I snap, and then we both laugh.

 

Aunt Zeta gets into the car and calls out a goodbye to Mr. Kirschtein and Jean, thanking them for their help. I turn back to look at Jean and hug him one more time, real quick, before I run back to the car and get into the front seat. I buckle up and take a big breath, watching out the window as we pull away from Grandma’s house.

 

As we drive away, I watch Jean get smaller and smaller.

 

Until he’s not even there anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! uwu


	3. thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we just want to say thank you everybody for reading this so far, for commenting and giving kudos and cheering us on, YOU ALL ARE SO KIND!!!! this chapter took me a while to write, mostly because i've had a lot going on other than writing that i'm trying to prepare for (i'm starting my own online store??? :o wow), as well as school. i actually wrote almost all of this in the past two days if you can believe it! anyway, i hope you guys enjoy this third chapter... it's a little bit of everything :^)
> 
> also thank you [runawaytrout](http://runawaytrout.tumblr.com/) for drawing [our first fanart](http://runawaytrout.tumblr.com/post/130894530071/sketches-of-some-jeanmarco-fics-ive-been-reading) for this story!!! ;u; it is so cute, we love it so much!!!

“Won't you let me walk you home from school?  
Won't you let me meet you at the pool?  
Maybe Friday I can  
Get tickets for the dance,  
And I'll take you.”

 

 _Thirteen – Elliott Smith_  

 

* * *

  

The first summer without Marco sucks. A lot.

 

It sucks because, first of all, Marco was always there to be the sweaty one. Like, he’s bigger than me obviously. His chub layers protect him in the winter, but in the summer (which, in Michigan, gets pretty dang hot) it’s his archenemy. Now, I don’t really like to admit this, but I’m naturally a sweater. Sweaty hands, sweaty pits. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m ashamed of it. (Once when I was little, I tried grabbing a girl’s hand on the playground and she screamed when I grabbed it, wiped her hand on my shirt, and cried to all the other girls in our grade about the “sweaty beast.” Scarred for life.)

 

Anyway, with Marco being the sweaty one between us, I could live inconspicuously and just be known in the summertime as Sweaty Chub’s friend.

 

And, I mean, it also sucks because there’s no one else for me to read comics with. There’s nobody to watch cartoons with on One Saturday Morning, nobody else around who actually listens to the mix cd’s I make them, and nobody to chase the ice cream man with. I guess there’s Little Girl, but Little Girl’s not so little anymore; she’s kind of lazy in her old age.

 

Either way, we talk almost every day. It’s not the same as him being right next door (the house is still empty, which I’m sort of grateful for) but it’s the best we can do. He lives too far to drive up every weekend, so we make do with AIM and late-night phone calls.

 

The last month of summer is awful, but the weekend before school starts, Dad drives me to Marco’s aunt’s. Honestly, we both wanted him to come here but Dad has to work all weekend and he said he didn’t trust us to keep the house clean while he was out.

 

And I’m not saying I’m not bitter, but he kind of has a point.

 

I get to Marco’s at 8:00am Friday morning, because Dad had to be in to work by noon. The farther north we drive, the farther it is between houses. Marco’s house, for the record, is basically out in the middle of nowhere, and it’s dark ass purple. It sticks out like a sore thumb.

 

Dad starts to pull in the driveway and goes, “You sure Marco gave us the right address?”

 

“Uh,” I start, but then we see the front door fly open and Marco comes running out with his face all bunched up like he’s about to start crying, and I just go, “Yeah. Yeah I think it’s the right address.”

 

I hop out of the car and Marco has his arms around me before I can even get the door closed.

 

“Jean!” he yells so loud, right by my ear. But I’m hugging him back before I know it, and I don’t even really care that he maybe (probably) broke my eardrum. “I missed you,” he just about sobs.

 

“I missed you too,” I whisper, so quiet not even Marco can hear how much I really have – or how miserable I’ve been without him.

 

"Come on," Marco says, pulling away with a sudden excitement. "I'll give you the grand tour!"

 

I grin and follow him up the drive, up to his front door that's got cobwebs in the corners. Marco doesn't seem to notice them. He just walks right up and opens the door, and when I turn around, Dad shoots me a look like "I don't know if we're going to like what we see in here."

 

But, once we get in, we realize that it's not half bad - if you like living in a  _complete nut-house._

 

Now, that's not to say that the house is in  _bad_  shape, or that it looks gross or dingy or whatever I might have thought before we got inside. The purple house should have been a dead-giveaway, though. This place is  _crazy_. 

 

My eyes are huge as Marco turns around and goes, "Well, what do you think?" 

 

First off, it's the kitchen. Now, if I can tell there's something weird about this place by just the  _kitchen,_  you know something's off. There's cat-shaped ladle holders, cat-shaped salt and pepper shakers, a cross-stitch of a black cat with a crescent moon in the sky above it, and a cat-printed hot pad sitting next to the stove. So, not only have I assessed that this lady is a totally insane cat loony, but from where I'm standing just in front of the front door, I can see about five different crystals just chilling on counters and tables. And there's a weird smell coming from some stick that's smoking on a shelf just past the kitchen.

 

"What's that smell?" I ask Marco, scrunching my nose up without meaning to.

 

He smiles sheepishly and runs his hand through his hair, then situates it at the back of his neck. "Oh, you mean the incense? Aunt Zeta has it going at all times. When I first got here it was kind of hard to sleep because the smell was so strong. But don't worry, I quarantined my room so it's a lot better in there. Or, I guess, easier to breathe... Not so fume-y."

 

I mean, I'm not saying the smell is necessarily bad or anything. It's kind of got a nice scent. It's just, dang. This crap is strong.

 

Suddenly, there's a crash that sounds from a faraway room, then a high-pitched curse word, and then after just a second of us all standing around staring at where the sound came from, a lady comes hurrying down the hallway dressed like some fairy queen. Or something. Her long, layered dress has got big bell sleeves and the fabric is all ruched, sort of acid-washed in color. It all just flows behind her like she's walking on a cloud.

 

And her glasses are bigger and more circular than Harry Potter's. They're like giant crystal bubbles and they magnify her eyes x5 billion.

 

"The Kirschteins!" she exclaims, throwing her hands into the air. "You made it - sorry for the mess."

 

"No worries," Dad tells her.

 

"Hello again, Jean," she smiles, looking to me. She extends her hand to me, but just as I'm about to take it, she rips her hand away and goes, "Too slow."

 

I don't move; my whole body goes rigid as I try to process what the heck just happened. Was I just... schooled by an adult? What the heck  _is_ this place?

 

But Marco just laughs and low fives her behind her back. I glare openly at him and he just wipes a laughter-tear out of his eye. "Sorry, Jean," he tells me honestly. "She's just really good at that."

 

Marco told me over the phone that I'd really like his Aunt Zeta. But right now I just feel like a tiny ball of absolute, pure rage.

 

Dad leaves shortly after. He hugs me and it's kind of embarrassing but I just let it happen. I'm 12. In any other circumstance I would have felt weird about it, except it's just in front of Marco and his terrible aunt. Plus, I'm going to sort of miss Dad.

 

"Call me tonight," he says, and when I tell him I will, he waves at us all and heads back out the door.

 

This is the first time I've had to get driven up here, so he wanted to come see where I was staying before he started meeting Zeta halfway. I guess he trusts her enough to leave me for a whole weekend. I don't know if I do, but at least I'm with Marco, so. I mean. We could be staying the weekend at a garbage dump and as long as Marco was there, it probably wouldn't be so bad.

 

Once Dad's gone, Marco shows me around the rest of the house - the "grand tour," if you will. First is his room, which looks so tidy, it's a miracle. He must have cleaned it all up before I got here. That kind of makes me feel special. We dump my stuff off next to his bed and both of us comment on the fact there actually seems to be oxygen circulating in this room.

 

Then there's the living room. It's not particularly messy, except there's a lot of paperwork sprawled out in one area of it. Marco tells me she's still working with legal matters regarding him. I just nod. The television is propped up on a card table, and there's more crystals next to it.

 

"Dude," I start in a hushed voice, just in case Zeta's lurking somewhere, listening, "what's with all the crystals?"

 

"My aunt's sort of like a medium, I guess," Marco explains just as quietly. "Well, she said she was something else. I don't remember what it's called, exactly. But, she does a lot of energy field kind of stuff, reads tarot cards..."

 

I squint. "Is she a witch?"

 

Marco laughs really hard, then quiets back down immediately. "No, I don't think she's a witch. She's just spiritual... in an unorthodox kind of way."

 

I snort at his choice of vocabulary. Unorthodox. I know for a fact this kid learned that word from Shrek.

 

“Oh,” I say, pretending that thought didn’t just actually occur to me. “Well, that’s good I guess. Not that there’s really anything wrong with witches besides them eating little children, but hey, who am I to judge, right–”

 

“I think Hocus Pocus scarred you, Jean.”

 

My stomach growls and I completely ignore him. “Ugh. Talking about eating is making me hungry.”

 

“Then you’re in luck,” Marco grins, hopping up off the floor and making the whole room shake just a little. “Aunt Zeta buys the best snacks.”

 

“By ‘Aunt Zeta buys the best snacks,’ do you actually mean that I’m gonna be 400 pounds by the time Dad comes to get me on Sunday?”

 

“Definitely.”

 

I rub my hands together and do my best Mr. Burns impression. “Eeeeeexcellent.”

  

* * *

 

So it turns out that Marco’s Aunt Zeta really doesn’t know how to cook – and that is just fine with me, because she’s got stockpiles on stockpiles of junk food in the cupboard, and down in the basement. (In addition to being an almost-witch, she’s also an excellent couponer.) There’s roughly 25 boxes of poptarts in the house, and each of those boxes holds 60 poptarts. Divided by two, square root it, carry the one… It’s just a heckin’ lot of poptarts, man.

 

There’s pretzels, frozen dinners, seven, eight, nine different kinds of cereal, a whole refrigerator in the garage full of drinks that go all the way to the back, and BAM. A drawer full of Kool-Aid.

 

We feast for a half hour, then read comics, play some video games. Marco shows me all the pictures he’s taken since he’s gotten there; he’s actually been keeping himself pretty busy. He’s still got loads of Polaroids, but since Polaroid went bankrupt (for the second time… amazing), it’s harder for him to get the film for it. He’s been doing a lot of digital stuff lately, since Aunt Zeta lent him her digital camera to play with. It’s a point-and-shoot that looks like a DSLR (whatever that means) and it’s apparently really really cool. It looks like a black camera to me, pretty regular. I don’t know, I don’t get photography like Marco does.

 

“Well, what have you been up to?” Marco asks, catching himself before he talks too much. (Not that I mind, I actually really like listening to Marco talk about stuff he likes, even if I don’t get it. He sort of turns into a ball of light.)

 

“Um,” I start, folding my arms behind my head as I kick my feet up onto his bed, right next to him. He leans over, and when I glance up at him, I notice his hair’s fallen in his eyes. I don’t get why I want to push it away, but I do.

 

“Well,” I try again, “I’ve been listening to a lot of music.”

 

It’s not a total lie. I have been listening to music, a lot. Most of it’s Dad’s 90’s stuff he never let me touch before, some of his records from when he was a kid that I am allowed to touch because, now, I’m old enough.

 

I just really like the feeling all the 90’s music has. I mean, it was just really… complete. It’s like there was no emptiness in those sounds. Right now, Green Day is kind of my jam. And Sublime. And Third Eye Blind, even if Dad did only buy their album for that one hit.

 

(I also secretly like Hootie and the Blowfish, but I’m definitely not telling Marco that.)

 

“Oh yeah?” Marco asks. “Are you going to join band?”

 

I snort. “Heck no. Band kids are dorky.”

 

Marco’s quiet, and I know it’s because he’s interested in joining the science club. Really, he wants to join robotics, but they don’t offer that until we get to high school, and that’s a good couple years away.

 

“Well, what kind of music?” he asks. “You should have brought your CD’s.”

 

“I only have the one in my CD player,” I sigh. “And I listened to it all the way here, I’m kind of sick of it… Next time we hang out, remind me and I’ll burn you a mix of the good shit.”

 

Marco’s eyes go wide. Probably at my casual use of the word “shit.” Marco doesn’t swear, he’s too innocent. Marco the robotics, Magic: The Gathering, instant-film, comic book-loving nerd. It almost makes me feel bad for swearing in front of him, the way he looks right after, like I’m tainting something pure.

 

“Okay,” Marco shrugs, then smirks. “Burn me the good shit.”

 

My eyes bug out of my head, and I lean up to look at him. His cheeks are red, but he’s grinning hugely and I can’t stop myself from falling back down, laughter pouring out my throat and billowing through the air. The sound tangles up with his.

  

* * *

  

Aunt Zeta gets us pizza for dinner… So, I guess, she’s really not that bad. She said she just “didn’t have time” to make us dinner, but Marco just rolls his eyes and she smacks him on the back of the head. They both know she’s just trying to look cool.

 

It’s not like she hasn’t been busy though. She’s been in the back room working on something all day. Marco said she paints in there, apparently she’s a… what’s it called. Freelance. Freelance artist. She doesn’t show her stuff in galleries but she does a ton of stuff in local magazines and newspapers, and does other odds-and-ends work for home-owned businesses in the area.

 

Anyway, I’m just saying she definitely was busy. It’s still no excuse for not being able to make so much as a grilled cheese, and for letting Marco start prepping his flubber for winter in August.

  

* * *

  

That night, I cave. Maybe it’s because I just missed him so much that I don’t really care what we do, or maybe it’s something else. But that night, I tell Marco I’ll let him teach me how to play Magic.

 

He flips a lid on that. The look on his face when, right in the middle of playing Crash Bandicoot, he just drops his controller and turns to look at me – sort of in a “you must be crazy” kind of way, but mostly in an “I can’t believe you are ready to join me in Magic: The Gathering hell.”

  

* * *

  

Spoiler alert: I don’t like the game. At all.

 

Even after Marco spends hours trying to teach me, and I try to play along with him, there comes a point when at one o’clock in the morning I just have to lay the cards down (both literally and metaphorically) and tell him like it is.

 

“I’m just not a Magic guy,” I murmur regretfully.

 

I almost expect him to get upset, like maybe he would have when he lived next door, because he was really good at getting upset over little things back then. Now though, when my eyes meet his, they just crinkle.

 

“I didn’t expect you to,” Marco tells me simply. “But it made me happy that you tried to.”

 

* * *

  

That night, Marco and me wind up sleeping feet-to-head, head-to-feet in his twin-size bed. A twin size is already pushing it for Marco, wideness and all, and it’s hard for me because I’m practically falling off, either on the top or the bottom. But, somehow, we find a way to make it work. Marco’s arms curl around my legs, and I try not to inhale his stinky foot fumes, that are only sort of stinky. They mostly just smell like Marco though, and no matter where he lives, at his Grandma’s house or in cat paradise, he still has this familiar scent to him.

 

It calms me down, even when I can hear one of his cats clawing at the door in the middle of the night, and just as soon as I’m about to fall asleep, when a memory of Mom taking me to the drive-in movies resurfaces in the back of my mind.

 

Marco’s already asleep when my arms find their way around his legs. If he’s not, he doesn’t say anything about it in the morning.

  

* * *

  

The first year of school without Marco is shitty. Everything is – or, every _one_ , I should say. I can’t stand how the majority of the girls turned bitchy overnight, and how almost all the guys grew a couple inches. They’re all mostly my height now, except Eren who is still a little twerp in comparison.

 

It’s kind of funny though, because I probably dislike Eren the least. He’s irritating, but not in the way everyone else is.

 

And I guess it goes without saying that Eren’s adoptive sister Mikasa is an entire closet full of cat’s pajamas.

 

But, like I said, everything else kind of blows. We have electives this year, and clubs, but I don’t join those, and for electives I just take gym and public speaking. Two things I’m good at.

 

I think everything is worse this year because I just don’t connect. Not that I ever needed anyone in the first place, it’s just… I don’t know. When I walk through the hallways, everyone has someone they can laugh with, or say hi to when we travel classrooms.

 

I don’t.

 

And I know Marco’s getting along with kids. He’s got a couple friends in his class, from what he tells me about – even though he swears up and down that there’s nobody like me there.

 

Sometimes I wonder if that’s true or not. If I’m really as special as Marco seems to think I am. I mean, I know he is. But sometimes I feel pretty ordinary.

 

Like, there’s nothing I’m good at. I bad at just about every school class. Spanish is the worst, then math, then geography, and so on. Marco seems the opposite, he’s great at everything, even languages.

 

“Jean,” Marco says one night over the phone. He’s on the landline, and I’m on Dad’s cell phone because I decided to go to the park, just to think. Marco’s working on his homework for Earth Science, but he’s a good multi-tasker.

 

“Huh,” I prompt, and kick my legs on the swing. I don’t swing too high.

 

He sighs. “Well, I was thinking. You know how I like science. And Aunt Zeta likes metaphysical stuff, plus cats. And your Dad likes card night.” (Yeah. Dad starting having card night with his co-workers and it’s pretty lame, except one of his friends let me try his beer a couple weeks ago and it tasted like dog piss. Or, I mean, how you’d think dog piss would taste. I’ve never had it.) “Well,” Marco continues, “you need something like that. A hobby, I guess.”

 

"Marco," I say flatly, and even though he can't see I'm rolling my eyes, I do anyway. "You say that like it's easy. There's just nothing I love, or even like. It's easy for you, since you're such a nerd for science."

 

I can hear him laughing quietly on the other end. I don't know where he is in the house, but I can sense him lying on his bed with his feet pressed up against the wall above his headboard, eyes closed. Something about the tone of his voice just sounds peaceful.

 

"You like music, don't you?" Marco starts again. "I know you don't want to join organized band, but there's other instruments you can try just for fun."

 

The thought of learning to play an instrument makes my stomach sink. That's like learning a language, and I'm awful at that. I feel like arguing with him, because it would be easy to win on this particular issue, but I'm starting to get tired, so I just don't. "Sure," I tell him, but I don't elaborate. I just let him have it.

 

"I could see you on stage someday," Marco continues, even though I already want this conversation to be over. "Like, you playing guitar somewhere. Maybe not acoustic guitar. Electric. And playing so fast that it just  _blows_ everybody's  _minds_."

 

I have to laugh; I can hear the light in his voice, like when he gets excited about things he likes. Even though it's late and I know for a fact it's well past his bedtime,  _it_ exists somewhere between the lowercases and capitals: the brightness. It comes easy for him because, for Marco, loving things is easy.

 

_Why do I always feel so disconnected?_

 

"I can tell you're overthinking things," Marco says suddenly, and all at once I'm aware that I am. "Don't. Or, try not to. Just try  _something_ , Jean. I know starting is hard, but it won't always be hard." He pauses, and right at this moment, I wonder if he's thinking about me or himself. "You have to find your own happiness, you know?"

 

I nod. "Yeah. I know."

  

* * *

 

It's November when I finally ask Dad over dinner if he'll let me start taking guitar lessons.

 

Dad nearly spits out his mouthful of chicken. "Where did this come from?"

 

I shrug. "Just a thought." He eyes me like,  _Yeah, sure,_  but he doesn't say anything. He just keeps eating for a minute in silence while Little Girl begs at his feet. He nudges her, and she huffs loudly, then lies down underneath his chair.

 

"I guess I should have seen this coming," Dad says finally, smiling a little. "Seeing as how you took personal rights over my record player... and all my CD's." He points at me with his fork for emphasis.

 

"Hey, you  _gave_  me those," I argue, and he shakes his head. He knows I'm right.

 

He takes another bite of baked potato and sits back. "Okay, but you have to promise, if you start, you have to go for a whole year. No backing out."

 

"I won't," I say, clenching my fist around my fork unintentionally. "I want to learn."

 

Dad tries not to smile - I can tell by the way he kind of hides it behind his hand - and he says, "It makes me proud to hear you say that."

 

And suddenly, I'm glad I'm taking Marco's advice. Even if I didn't want to right away, even because I didn't want to let him be right. Right now, I'm glad he was. 

  

* * *

 

When Marco comes to visit over winter break, I make sure to show him the few measley chords I know how to play, as well as the Inspector Gadget theme, which I'm really slow at, but it sounds sweet as hell because I've only been playing for a month.

 

Of course, he's super impressed. His eyes go all wide and starry when I finish playing Smoke on the Water, and for a second he looks like he's going to start clapping, right before he realizes that might be weird since it's just us two in my bedroom.

 

"That's incredible," he says, letting out a breath. "You already learned all that after just one month!"

 

I don't correct him, in that it's been more like a month and a half. I just play it cool, nod, and pluck at some random strings with my fingers in the formation of a wobbly C chord.

 

"Don't your fingers hurt?" he asks, staring intently at their place on the neck.

 

"Sure do."

 

He lets out a low breath. "Wow. You're... amazing."

 

That prideful feeling surges in my stomach, and I can feel my back straighten just a little.

  

* * *

  

His aunt lets him stay over on Christmas morning, even though he has to go home later that day. The important part is that he gets to stay for presents, which is great because I'm bad at keeping secrets, and keeping his a secret for the past four months has been absolute torture.

 

When he unwraps it, his eyes just about bug right out of his head. "What! A microscope?! Jean, Mr. Kirschtein, this is too much--"

 

"It's just one gift," Dad says. I know it's a big deal for him, though. 

 

I know, because I traded in all my presents for this one of his. 

 

Marco doesn't really get nice things anymore, because it's not like his aunt is loaded or anything. She's just one lady. And, Dad is just one guy. Between my lessons and Marco's microscope, Dad's practically broke - but I played him, and got him to make me a deal that if I forfeited presents this year, he'd buy whatever I wanted for Marco.

 

Marco can't stop staring at it. Dad hands Marco his pocketknife and lets him get into the box, and when he pulls it out his nostrils flare and his eyebrows pull together, like his heart just shriveled up into something that resembles a raisin.

 

"Thank you," he says so honestly, and I shoot Dad a look. He winks at me, and I nod. I don't always do things for other people - like, it's way easier to be selfish, which most of the time I will admit that I am - but every once in a while, it's not so bad to feel good.

 

Suddenly, Marco starts, sits upright on his knees, his hands balled up in fits in the carpet, and goes, "I got something for you, too, Jean."

 

I don't say anything, but this alone makes my entire day. If there's one thing I like more that giving presents, it's getting them.

 

"Here," Marco goes, and the present he pulls out from behind our tiny plastic Christmas tree isn't very big at all. The wrap-job is kind of lumpy, and the paper is torn in a couple places on account of whatever's inside being not very rigid. "Sorry it's not... it's not a microscope, or anything..."

 

I laugh. "Good. I didn't  _want_  a microscope."

 

Marco laughs too, then bites down on his lower lip. Waiting.

 

I'm not careful with the paper in the way Marco was. I just tear right into it, goin' straight to town, and when I see what it is, I feel my cheeks burn.

 

"That's so nice, Marco," Dad grins. "A guitar strap."

 

"Dad," I say slowly, "it's not just any strap." He raises an eyebrow, looks at the strap in my hands again, then back at me. "It's the same kind Bille Joe uses... How did you know?"

 

"I had to research it," Marco says, "since I don't really listen to Green Day..."

 

"This is so. Incredibly. Cool," I state, unraveling it from the top down. To anybody else, it would look just like a regular old red guitar strap, but I can tell just by the brand that Marco had to actually go to Guitar Center to get this same exact one. That he had to do research to find something special, just for me.

 

"Thanks, Marco," I say, and I watch as the daisy inside him blooms.

  

* * *

  

After Christmas, it's a long time until I see Marco again. 

 

I don't know why, it just happens that way, I just does. Maybe it's winter - something about it just sucks the joy out of fucking everything.

 

I practice guitar every day, until my fingers are covered by callouses, until I can feel myself starting not to suck entirely. I focus on guitar practice when I know I should be doing school work. Marco calls to tell me about his report card, how he's gotten all A's, while I just congratulate him and ignore the glaring fact that my report card is straight C's.

 

But I chalk it up to the fact that I hate school without Marco. I hate living in this stupid town where Marco isn't.

 

And it hurts even more knowing he's doing just fine without me.

 

It hurts so much that I stop calling. A lot of times I take Little Girl for walks just because I have a feeling the phone is going to ring, and it's going to be Marco calling to tell me how he won another science fair, or that him and his new friend Armin are going to see the new X-Men movie.

 

Seventh grade is a total blur, aside from little things, like the time I get in trouble for starting a fight with Eren and get suspended for three days. 

 

I sit in the back of the bus, in the back of the class.

 

Dad's mad at me a lot lately. He threatens to stop paying for guitar lessons if I don't get my shit together. We yell at each other. We go to bed angry. 

 

Marco catches me one night in the middle of May, just as I'm about to head to the park on my bike. Dad answers and gives me a weird look when I ask him to pretend I'm not there, then he narrows his eyes and shakes his head at me, pointing to the receiver with a look of finality. I groan, but inevitably take the phone and put it to my ear.

 

"Jean!" Marco says right away, and he sounds really excited for some reason. "Hey, how are you doing?"

 

I shrug. I always forget he can't see me. "Fine," I say eventually. Dad's still standing there, and he folds his arms across his chest.

 

He's quiet for a second. "You don't  _sound_  fine."

 

"I'm fine, okay?" I accidentally snap, and as soon as I do, I feel really awful. "Sorry," I apologize quickly, shooting a look at Dad. He sighs, then walks out of the kitchen. I lean up against the wall and find myself absentmindedly playing with the kinks in the phone chord.

 

"What's wrong?" he asks, softer. "I miss you."

 

My heart catches on fire and, suddenly, I'm completely full of lighter fluid. My eyes start to burn, my cheeks, my ears. I hide my eyes in my hand.

 

"I miss you too," I choke out.

 

"Are you crying?"

 

"No." Again, it comes out as a snap, but this time he just sighs. He knows I don't mean it, even if he doesn't understand why. "My Dad and I have been fighting a lot lately," I say weakly, and wipe the underneaths of my eyes. "And. I know it's not like Mom's dead or anything. But it sure feels like she is. She  _never_ calls. She hasn't answered a voicemail in three years." I pause. "Sometimes I wish she really was dead. That way I wouldn't have to pretend she is."

 

Marco's end goes quiet. "Jean," Marco finally says, his voice only shaking once, "don't ever wish that. Ever."

 

"I didn't mean–" I start, but cut myself off. I don't know what I meant. I wasn't thinking about being insensitive, it just came out that way.

 

"I don't care if you hate her," Marco bites out, and now his voice is shaking a lot more, but he pushes through anyway. "I don't care if she's the worst mom ever. Maybe she is, for ignoring you, and for not caring about you. But if you knew what it was like to have dead parents, you wouldn't ever wish it was real. Not for anything."

 

"I'm sorry," I sputter. "I don't wish she was dead, okay? I don't. I just hate her. I hate her for leaving me and Dad, for inviting me to California, and pretending to take care of me when most of the time she just dumped me on her housekeeper. I don't know if she ever cared. At all." I pinch my eyes shut tight and say through clenched teeth: "I fucking hate her."

 

"Come over," Marco says, and the suddenness of his words startles me out of quicksand anger. "This weekend. I miss you. I want to see you."

 

My cheeks are wet. I take a shaky breath. When did I start crying? "I miss you too, Marco." Another shaky breath. "I'll ask my dad."

 

"Okay," Marco says. I lean my head against the wall, my free hand wiping at my face. "Ask your dad. We'll meet you - but, if he doesn't have time, I know Aunt Zeta would drive all the way. She would understand."

 

"Okay," I echo. "Okay."

  

* * *

  

It doesn't happen a lot, but it's like, whenever one of us is having a bad weekend, we always find a way to be together. Dad gets it. Marco's crazy aunt gets it. It's hard not having your best friend around. 

 

It's hard, noticing his face change.

 

* * *

 

  

It's like, as soon as the summer after seventh grade hit, everything's been coming up Jean Kirschtein. My acne's finally kicking in. My voice is breaking all the time. I wake up with a hard-on an embarrassing amount of times a week. It's a party, 24/7.

 

The worst part is that - once again - the guys in my class are shooting up like goddamn corn stalks. We're all hitting puberty at the same time, and it's not that I don't grow at all - I mean, I'm still taller than Eren (which is inexplicably a huge deal for me) - but, wow. Some of these kids get huge. And meaty.

 

Marco is one of those kids. 

 

I see him right after classes start in September, because he wants to test a hypothesis out on me for one of his new science projects/concoctions. Basically, he wants me to be his lab rat. I'm not cool with it at all.

 

When we pull into the park-and-ride to meet Zeta, and Marco get out of the car, he's like. A tower. I don't know how he fit in her little Neon but, Jesus Christ, he must have been folded up like an accordion in there. He's still chubby, he's still got that middle part dividing his head perfectly in twain, and yeah, he's got a little fresh acne coming around his nose. 

 

But. 

 

He is  _huge_. 

 

I can't help the  _what the hell_  that comes quietly out of my mouth, and when I look at Dad, his jaw is practically on the steering wheel.

 

I roll the window down, and Marco leans in easily. "Hey, Mr. Kirschtein," he says to dad. Good god, his voice got deep. "We'll be taking Jean from here."

 

Dad must notice the fact I'm staring blatantly at Marco, so he nudges me and goes, "I'm sure Jean would  _love_  that."

 

That snaps me out of it. "Ew, Dad!" And without another second of hesitation, I open the car door, making Marco move to get out of the way, and grab my bag out the back before flipping Dad the bird through the window. He brings his hand to his heart, clearly touched.

 

"Did your dad just... joke about you having a crush on me," Marco says, trying to keep his laughter out of control.

 

"My dad's a very gross, disturbed man who is only getting worse in his old age," I say very seriously, throwing my bag in the trunk and sliding in the backseat.

 

"Your dad's not even 40," Marco says, laughing openly now.

 

"I don't care. He's sick in the head."

 

Marco grins, then puts his seat belt on and turns back around. "Whateeeeever you say."

 

“You have a crush on my nephew?” Zeta asks, pulling out of the parking lot and honking twice at my dad before she turns out. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Puberty’s hitting him in all the right spots, I’d say. Marco’s a hottie.”

 

“It’s okay, Jean,” he grins, looking back at me in the rearview mirror. “I wouldn’t want to admit the kid who was always shorter and fatter than you is growing up smokin’.”

 

“You’re still fatter than me,” I mutter, finally getting myself buckled and crossing my arms over my chest. I stare out the window so I don’t have to look at his dumb, freckled, grown-up looking face.

 

Marco hears me and laughs, once, but the conversation stops after that.

  

* * *

  

"So," Marco asks, looking down his microscope at some giant, creepy bug he's got on the slider, "do you like anyone in school?"

 

"You mean, like girls?" He nods, and I shrug. "Most of the girls in my class annoy me."

 

He smirks, but doesn't move his eye from the slider. "It's kind of a general rule that  _most_  people annoy you."

 

"Basically."

 

Finally, he sits back, swivels his chair sideways a little so he can see me better. "So, there's not like, a single girl you like in your whole grade? Isn't your high school huge?"

 

"It's decent sized," I say, "but probably big compared to yours." Then I pause, thinking about it. Of course, the first (and only) girl who comes to mind is...

 

"Mikasa," I say finally. "She's half Japanese, kind of quiet... But she's super hot."

 

Marco nods, straightens his back. "Oh, okay."

 

I raise an eyebrow at him. "You like anybody at  _your_  school?"

 

It takes a second for him to say anything. It's like he really has to think about it, probably mentally ranking girls on a hotness scale. Finally, he says, "Definitely… There's this one girl in my class, uh, who’s really cute."

 

That's when it hits me. "Marco, you know this year is our first official formal middle school dance. Well, first and only, I should say."

 

"Not for us," Marco says. "We get another one in the spring, too."

 

I narrow my eyes at him. "Lucky you. Anyway, this is our time to shine, dude. Like, we should ask girls to go with us! As dates! I still haven't kissed a girl yet, which I'm ashamed to admit... But, that could change at the dance, you know?" I pause suddenly. "Have  _you_ kissed a girl yet?"

 

"No, no!" Marco says hurriedly, and his cheeks go bright pink.

 

I grin unapologetically. "Good. I'm not allowed to be the only eighth grader who hasn't." I sit up from his bed, propping myself up with my elbows. "So, do you wanna do it?"

 

"You think girls will actually agree to go with us?" Marco asks, and I can tell he's nervous about it. "Maybe we should just wait until, uh, college or something..."

 

"Our time is NOW!!!" I yell, and for emphasis, I chuck his pillow at him. " _WAKE_  UP, LIMPDICK!"

 

" _FINE!_ " he yells back, and my eyes go huge as continues to pick the pillow up, stand from his chair and stride across the room toward me with his fires burning in his bellows.

 

"Eep!" I squeak. 

 

And then he assaults me.

 

I try kicking him away, and he shoves my face down into the mattress with his big meaty claw. I'm swinging fists, and he's bludgeoning me with my own weapon. Simply put, Marco kicks my entire ass into the dirt, and by the end of it, he's sitting on my face with his big squishy butt and threatening to rip one right in my breathing zone.

 

"No!" I cry out from under his tender cheeks. "Mercy! I said mercy, muffin top!"

 

Something inside him rumbles. "No mercy," he says darkly. And then he rips the biggest fart of all time on me - a fart so big that I swear my nose hairs singe.

 

"YOU SICK FUCK!!!" I howl and shove him off. "I'm never forgiving you for that!"

 

Marco's on the floor wheezing, snorting, practically pissing himself. 

 

I’m choking as I tell him, "You need to watch what you eat. All I can taste right now is that bean burrito you heated up an hour ago." I willingly leave his room and enter the gas chamber of incense (aka: the entire rest of Marco's house) and take a deep breath. It's bad, but it's better than butt breath.

 

Eventually I return to Marco's room, but I sit far away from him to avoid any other slick moves he's thinking about pulling.

 

"Who knew you'd raise such a  _stink,_ " Marco deadpans, then starts cracking himself up.

 

"Glad you think it's funny."

 

"It is funny," he says, serious again before cracking a pained smile. "Un- _bean_ -lievably funny."

 

"I hate you."

  

* * *

  

It turns out that the weekend our "Snowcoming" dance is held is, coincidentally, the same weekend as Marco's "Winter Ball." (Snowcoming is a far superior name in my opinion, but. Anyway.) We make a pact that night, in Marco's bedroom, to definitely ask the girls we like to go with us.

 

 _I'm going to show every other annoying asshat kid in my school that, yeah, I can swing the hottest girl in the class, and I'd be surprised if she didn't ask me there first,_ I think. _I'm going to show everyone, and I'm going to show Marco, that just because I'm not as tall as him, and just because I'm kind of really skinny, I'm hot, too._ And _worthy of girls on Mikasa's level._

 

Monday at school, I spend all day psyching myself up. It’s a month to the dance, but today is the day. I gotta do it before somebody else does.

 

Mikasa is just sitting there, right before the final bell rings, working on something in her notebook. Her history text book is open next to her, and she’s looking from the book to the page, writing impressively fast.

 

_Now or never, dude. DO IT._

 

I take a deep breath, stand up from my chair like I’m about to go sharpen my pencil, and walk over to her so smooth it’s like _butter_ I’m so damn smooth.

 

…But then, she looks up, right before I get there, and some alarm sounds inside me, red alert, evacuate the premises.

 

So I don’t actually end up asking Mikasa. Right then anyway. On the bus ride home, I tell myself that I’ll for sure ask her tomorrow, it’s just that the timing wasn’t right.

 

Another day passes, and another wasted chance blows like a tumbleweed in the vast wasteland of my pride.

 

_Tomorrow. No, really, tomorrow. Tomorrow! TOMORROW!!! BITCH DO IT TOMORROW!!!!!!!!_

 

Three whole weeks fly by and I can’t believe I _still_ haven’t done it – and Snowcoming is happening, this weekend. I’m such a loser. I’m a total moron. Why can’t I just say it? Why can’t I just ask her? Why am I such a pussy?

 

I call Marco that night and ask him if he’s asked his girl to the dance yet.

 

“Oh, yeah, a while ago” Marco says, and I can hear something change in his voice. “She said she’d go. My aunt’s picking her up on Saturday at 7:00 and taking us. Her dress is pink so, uh, apparently I have to get a pink corsage for her? I don’t know how it works really…”

 

My breath catches in my throat and I can feel the nerves creeping up my throat, like I’m about to throw up everywhere.

 

“Did you?” he asks, after it’s quiet for too long to stand.

 

I groan.

 

“Jean!” Marco shouts through the speaker. “You’re the one who wanted us to do this, you know!”

 

“I know, I know!” I practically cry. “I just couldn’t find the right time to do it!”

 

“But… you only have one day left.”

 

I sigh and hide my face in my hand. I feel like I’m failing everyone now, even myself. Even Marco – Marco, who is strong enough to ask a girl to the dance, who gets all A’s, who is head of the science club and is already 5’9”. I’m just a scrawnier, overall shittier version of him who can't even make friends. I can feel my stomach turning into a big knot, weighing down my chest like a rock.

 

“I’ll ask her tomorrow,” I tell him finally.

 

Marco quiets, and I can hear him sighing on the other end. “Jean, you know, if it doesn’t work out, there’s other things you could do instead of the dance. You don’t have to let yourself feel bad about it if it doesn’t work out.”

 

“Like what?” I ask ruefully. “ _What_ is better than going to the dance with Mikasa?”

 

“I don’t know!” His tone is defensive. “I just meant… you shouldn’t beat yourself up over this, okay? You’re… you’re better than who you take to a dumb eighth grade dance.”

 

“Sure,” I say dismissively. “Listen, I’ll talk to you later. I have… homework to do.”

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

I don’t even bother saying ‘bye,’ I just hang up the phone on the wall and storm up to my room, fling myself onto my bed and scream once, really loudly, into my pillow. I hate this. I hate feeling like a worthless piece of garbage.

 

I hate the way that I am.

 

After lying in bed for an hour, maybe two, Dad comes in to let me know he’s home from work. When he sees me, he lets himself in and sits on the edge of my bed, and puts a hand on my shoulder.

 

“Women,” is all he says, and I just nod. We sit there like that for a while before he stands up and leaves. In twenty minutes, I smell dinner cooking downstairs, and I wonder if this is his way of trying to make me feel better. It only kind of works.

  

* * *

  

On Friday, at the end of the day, just before the final bell rings, I summon the courage to ask Mikasa to go to Snowcoming with me.

 

And she rejects me.

  

* * *

 

I can’t help it when I get home from school, slam the front door shut behind me, drop my backpack at my feet and crumple into a ball on the floor. It’s like every single fucking thing is pouring out of me, out of my eyes, out of my lungs. Little Girl runs up and starts licking me, but when I don’t move to pet her, she starts whining and leans her head on me.

 

That’s the thing about losing every time. You start just let that defeat consume you, and cripple you, and keep you on the floor. It starts feeling longer, the amount of time it takes for you to stand back up.

 

I wonder if one of these days, I’ll just stay down.

  

* * *

  

Dad doesn’t have to ask when he gets home that night. He just brings me hot cocoa, like how Marco’s grandma used to do for him when he felt sad, and brings me a fluffy blanket. I don’t want to come out of my room until time starts going in the opposite direction, until I can have a redo of everything. Or, even until this school year is over. I would take that.

 

Why aren’t I a bear? Why is human hibernation not a thing? It should be.

 

Dad has his friends over for card night, and we all pretend I’m not here.

 

Marco doesn’t call. I don’t know why I wish he did, but he doesn’t, so it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s for the best, though. I don’t feel like admitting how big of a loser I am to him.

 

(One of these days, Marco is going to wake up and realize I’m not cool, that I’m not nice or friendly or good enough. And he’s going to start unraveling himself from me.)

 

I don’t feel like playing guitar. I don’t feel like playing with Little Girl, or going to the park, or watching TV, or reading comics.

 

Instead, I go to bed early with my eyes glued shut.

  

* * *

  

Saturday is the worst day. I keep snapping at Dad, I lock Little Girl out of my room, I don’t want to see anyone or do anything. I just want to disappear. Dad ends up leaving to run some errands at 4:00, and he asks from the other side of my bedroom door if I want to go with him. I don’t, not even a little, so I just don’t answer him and eventually, his shadow disappears.

 

I wallow in self-pity all day long, and as soon as I see the clock change from 6:59 to 7:00, my heart sinks. Marco’s probably out with his date. He’s probably excited and he’ll have a great time at the dance. Maybe he’ll get kissed.

 

I hate that I feel jealous.

 

And then I remember that Marco deserves things like this. That’s he’s the most deserving of getting kissed in probably the entire world. Just because Mikasa doesn’t want to kiss me and doesn’t think I’m cool enough to go to the dance with, it doesn’t mean that I should be angry that to somebody else, Marco _was_ enough.

 

I groan and fall over on the living room couch. I run my hands over my face, then up through my hair, and as my fingers comb through the tips, it strikes me that Dad’s been gone for a long time now. Usually he’s home in an hour and a half, two hours max, especially if he’s just going to the grocery store. It’s not even that far from our house.

 

 _Don’t worry,_ I tell myself, clapping my cheeks and pulling my knees up to my chest. _He probably just got caught up doing something. Or, maybe there was stopped traffic all the way there._

 

That whole not-worrying thing works pretty well for the next 20 minutes, but by the time it hits 7:30, I start absolutely freaking out. I call Dad’s cell phone probably a hundred times. I pace all over the house, I sit on the porch for a bit just to see if his car will round the bend, and when ten minutes later it doesn’t, I go back inside and pace some more.

 

 _Where the heck is he?_ _He should be home by now! What if something happened to him, what if he got into an accident… What if he got into an accident like Marco’s parents? What if he’s dead…_

 

Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door. I stop, right in the middle of the living room, and from where I’m standing I can see the front door down the hall. It’s dark out, so I can’t tell who it is… and my stomach turns. It’s not Dad, because if it was him, he would have just barged right in.

 

I gulp.

 

My footsteps are slow, and just as I get to the door, there’s another knock.

 

“Who is it?” I ask loudly, but nobody answers.

 

Now, if I was a responsible kid, I wouldn’t answer the door. But, seeing as how I’m not, and despite the fact that I’m scared shitless of whatever is on the other side, I kind of want to know. Curiosity killed the cat, blah blah blah… I push all that to the back of my mind and grab the door handle – and with one swift movement, I pull the door open.

 

And my jaw drops.

 

Standing in my doorway is Marco, dressed to the nines in a suit and bowtie, holding a bouquet of red roses.

 

“M-Marco?” I ask, and even though it’s just starting to snow outside, my face feels hot.

 

Marco smiles, then holds the flowers out to me. “You’re the most important person in my life,” he says quietly, “and I would rather spend tonight here with you than go to a dance with someone I hardly know.”

 

My eyes must be huge, and the way Marco’s smiling and the way the porch light is hitting the edges of his face makes it hard to form words. I bite my lip, take the flowers, and before I know it, I’m crossing the threshold and wrapping my arms around him.

 

“This is so gay, Marco,” I murmur, and he laughs, and so do I. He squeezes my shoulders for a quick second, then lets go, pats me on the back, and holds the door for me to come back inside.

 

“Seriously, how the fuck did you get here, dude?” I ask, still completely confused and amazed as I’m staring at the flowers in my hand.

 

That’s when I hear my Dad coming up the walk. “Language,” he calls, and then: “You honestly thought your old man was out running errands for _four_ _hours?_ ”

 

I start trying to piece everything together. “But, how did you know?” I ask Marco as he takes his dress shoes off, and he knows what I mean. _How did you know Mikasa rejected me? How did you know I wasn’t going to the dance?_

 

“Your Dad called Aunt Zeta this morning and gave her the run-down,” he says simply. “So when she told me, I called my date and apologized… I gave her the corsage and all, but… I had something more important I had to do.”

 

I roll my eyes. “Because tending to my bruised ego is _so_ much more important.”

 

Marco just shrugs at me. Like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing. Like he never even had to think about his answer in the first place.

 

He just knew.

 

“To me,” he says, “it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c


	4. wish you were here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have an excuse.  
> Sorry for the wait!

"I lean against the wind,  
pretend that I am weightless,  
and in this moment I am happy.  
I wish you were here."  
  
_Wish You Were Here  – Incubus_

* * *

I wake to a heavy feeling on my chest and a tickling sensation on my face.

 

Squinting my eyes open against the bright sunlight entering my room through the open curtains, I see a large black cat laying on me, his tail flicking me in the face repeatedly. I groan, rolling over as Aries scrambles to continue laying on top of me. My feet accidentally kick another cat at my feet, most likely Pisces, earning a loud, irritated meow, and the one that had previously been laying on the edge of the bed falls off with a thump.

  
  
“Sorry,” I mumble sleepily as I reach my hand out to pet Taurus, who always sleeps dangerously close to the edge and usually falls off. She gives me a dirty look but pads over to let me pet her as an apology, anyway.

  
  
“Marco, are you up yet?” Aunt Zeta’s voice calls from down the hall. There is a burning smell that is followed shortly after when the fire alarms starts going off. “Marco?” Her voice reaches higher levels of stress and I toss my blankets off of my body, knowing that I will get no more sleep.

  
  
I head into the kitchen, throwing my glasses on to clear my vision. “What’s going on?” I ask tiredly, seeing her fighting with the toaster oven, which shakes off the last of the sleepiness.

  
  
“It won’t turn off!” she explains loudly over the sound of the fire alarm still going off. 

  
  
I unplug it quickly, pulling the door open as smoke escapes. Aunt Zeta quickly grabs a towel to start swatting at the fire alarm, trying to clear the smoky air around it so it will stop beeping. I wave my hand in front of my face, letting out a few coughs as the smoke clears away. Inside is a very burnt piece of toast.

  
  
I reach up to switch the fire alarm off and give her a pointed look.

 

  
“I just wanted to make you breakfast!” she tells me sheepishly, wringing her hands in her nightgown. “First day of Sophomore year! It’s very exciting!”

  
I laugh and hold up the black piece of toast. It’s so burnt that the edges crumble into a dust, while the remaining parts are so hard that it could break teeth.

  
  
“I appreciate it,” I tell her honestly, “but I think I’ll just have some cereal.”

  
  
She takes the toast from me and throws it away, putting her hands on her hips and looking back at the toaster oven. “It seems I’ve got to come to turns with my lack of cooking skills.”

  
  
I grab a bowl from the cabinet and the milk from the fridge, pouring myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. For the past five years living with Aunt Zeta, I’ve grown accustomed to wake up calls like this. One time, she set the curtains on fire trying to make pancakes (which were not only burned around the edges but also undercooked in the middle…amazing); there was another incident when she was trying to get into gardening and woke up one morning to every single of her new plants dead in their pots and she cried so hard that it woke me from a deep sleep.

  
  
My favorite time was when she was using a curling iron and she curled a chunk of her hair right off of her head. We spent the entire morning at the salon trying to get it fixed.

  
  
While it’s been pretty crazy living with her, Aunt Zeta is actually really interesting. She loves to practice with me, so I get all kinds of tarot card, palm and tea leaf readings and crystal healings. Just a week ago, when she got a brand new deck of tarot cards, she did a new reading for me.

  
  
“Wheel of fortune,” I read as she flipped my first card over. “That sounds good!”

  
  
She sighed then and tapped on the card. “It’s flipped upside down,” she informed me instead, frowning. “That means bad luck, or negativity.”

  
  
“Oh…” I chewed anxiously on my bottom lip as she continued to flip the next two cards out. She turned one and flipped it over for us to read. The card was a nude person leaning over a body of water, filling some kind of goblet. Above the person was a sky full of stars; the bottom of the card was labeled ‘THE STAR.’

  
  
“This one means inspiration, and courage and fulfillment. A renewed hope,” Aunt Zeta told me with a smile. “This one is good.”

  
  
I smiled then, too, and anxiously watched her flip the next one.

  
  
A knight riding on a white horse, a banner in his hand. The word ‘DEATH’ read across the bottom.

  
  
“There is a darkness following you,” she said with a frown.

  
  
A darkness was right. Over the years, a lot of things have happened, and while I try my best to look closer at the happy things over the bad, I can’t deny the fact that I’ve had more than a little bad luck in my life.

  
  
Even though I was really little when it happened, I can still remember the night Mom and Dad died really vividly. I remember Grandma holding my hand as we walked up to their caskets in the funeral to say goodbye and not knowing what to do or say. I remember everyone asking me if I was okay. I remember I wasn’t.

  
  
After my parents’ untimely deaths, I was sent to live with Grandma. I spent a few of my best years there, and thought that I would stay there forever. Next door was where my best friend lived, I had more friends in school, and I was really excited about middle school. But the bad luck continued to follow me, and this time it took my Grandma’s life, leaving me once again, orphaned and alone.

  
  
My nearest living relative was Aunt Zeta, who is eccentric, cat-crazy, and all around not nurturing. But she’s become someone I care for very much, and that I’m always happy to talk with at the end of a long day. Even if living with her sometimes means that I’m more of the adult than she is.

  
  
When it comes to the bad things that have happened, I’ve noticed that I’m the common denominator. I’m the one that’s there when the ones I love die, and I’m the one who is always left behind.

  
  
Bad things happen around me, and I wish that I knew how to make it stop.

 

* * *

  
Sophomore year is probably my least favorite so far. I spend my day in classes like pre-calc, English, world history, band and biology, and although I _do_ love science, I’m more interested in building stuff, like we do in Robotics club. I find that learning about blood and organ stuff makes me feel a little nauseous.

  
  
When I make it home, Aunt Zeta is knitting in the living room with multiple cats lazing around her. Aries, like usual, is batting at the yarn, trying to play and get her attention.

  
  
“How was school?” she asks as I start toward the computer desk.

  
  
“It was alright,” I reply as I drop my backpack down beside it and sit down, turning it on and waiting for it to load up.

  
  
(A couple of years ago, when I was still in middle school, she got a computer so I could write papers and talk with Jean on the internet. It’s old, and it takes a long time to start up, but it’s better than nothing and I can’t really complain, because it does what I need for it to do – have access to talk to Jean more easily and often.)

  
  
“Oh, would it be okay if my friend Sasha came over this weekend?” I ask, turning around in the chair to look at her. She smiles a bit, giving me a look before going back to her knitting.

  
  
“Girlfriend?” she asks simply.

  
  
“No, just a friend. She’s in the Robotics club with me,” I explain, feeling a slight flush cross my cheeks. “We need to work on a project. I was wondering if I could use your camera, too, when it’s all finished. We need to get it ready for the Science Fair.”

  
  
“Of course, that’s not a problem,” she replies, still not looking up from her knitting.

  
  
Ever since I moved up to live with Aunt Zeta and had to switch schools, it’s been hard to really make friends. I think it’s because everyone from around here grew up with each other – the town is small, so everyone’s parents are friends and know everything about one another. Sasha, though, was the first person to really try and include me.

  
  
On my first day of school here, while the sadness was still heavy in my heart from losing Grandma and having to move, I was eating lunch by myself in the cafeteria. About half-way through the lunch period, a short girl with big doe eyes and her brown hair in a really high pony-tail plopped down across from me and gave me a big smile that showed off her hot pink braces.

  
  
“I love Tuesdays,” she’d said, as if we were already in the middle of a conversation, when in fact, I had never spoken to her before in my life. “Tacos are the only good lunches here! And we only have them on Tuesdays.”

  
  
“What?” I’d said, completely bewildered by this strange girl.

 

  
“What, what?” she echoed, tilting her head to the side a little. A minute later, we were joined by a short kid with a buzz cut that was wearing one of those Quicksilver shirts and a shark tooth necklace. “Hey, Connie!”

  
  
“Hey, Sasha,” he replied, taking a bite of his burrito before turning to look at me. “’Sup! You the new kid?”

  
  
I slowly nodded my head, still not sure what was really happening.

  
  
“I’m Connie, nice to meet ya,” he’d said easily.

  
  
“You, too.”

  
  
And just like that, I had people to talk to again. Hanging out with them was like a breath of fresh air – Sasha was so goofy, and she always has been able to make us laugh until our sides hurt. Connie, on the other hand, has always been cool and a complete trendsetter. Back in middle school, we all had those little skateboards that we used our fingers to do tricks with, and Connie was the first one who got one and started showing everyone his cool tricks in the cafeteria and before classes.

  
  
Once we got to high school, we officially went from just in-school friends to actually hanging out. Connie spent the night at my house sometimes and we stayed up all night on the computer playing video games and looking stuff up online. Sasha’s parents were both busy working, so she didn’t usually have a ride to hang out with us.

  
  
This year, both Sasha and I joined the Robotics team and so far, it’s been really fun. It’s kept me a little busy, so talking with Jean has been harder these days.

  
  
Once the computer is up and loaded, I pull up Internet Explorer and go to my favorites page to pull up MySpace, where I log in and am greeted with a busy dashboard. There’s a survey that Jean posted just a few minutes earlier, titled: ‘top 5! >:)’ and I click it to read his answers.

  
  
It only takes a second for my heart to fall, when I see that not one of these answers has my name on them.

  
  
I click on Jean’s profile, and am immediately taken to a black and red page with a flannel pattern background. His new profile picture is up close of him showing off his new nose ring with a sort of scowl on his face. He also has an audio player that plays Sum41’s ‘In Too Deep’ song. I hit pause on it as I scroll down his page, seeing that his about me part hasn’t changed since I last checked on it a few days ago.

  
  
His page only shows his top 5 friends. Until just today, I’ve always been set as his number one and he’s always my number one. But now, I feel that sinking feeling you get when you just want to cry and sleep for a week as I stare at his new number one. It’s a blonde girl with heavy eyeliner and a nose ring named Hitch. I try to remember if he’s ever mentioned her to me, but the name is completely foreign.

  
  
The rest of the top 5 are filled with people that I know or have at least heard of, like Eren and Mikasa and some guy named Marlowe.

 

  
I feel like I want to cry and be really upset, but I know it’s so irrational. It’s only a website and some people on here change their top 5 every day – at least, that’s what I tell myself.

  
  
I go back to my dashboard and click on a different survey to read through it, finding my heart hurt more and more when I read some of the answers. Then I feel like all the air leaves my lungs and my chest starts to really hurt when I see the final answer of the survey.

 

  
‘sometimes i just feel worthless’

  
  
“Marco?” Aunt Zeta says from the couch.

  
  
I click out of the internet and grab the phone. “I’m just gonna call Jean,” I reply, grabbing my backpack and heading down the hall to my bedroom as I dial the phone number I’ve known for so many years by heart.

  
  
It keeps ringing and ringing until finally, the familiar voice of Mr. Kirchstien picks up. “Hello?” he says, his tone seeming a bit out of breath, probably from having to run to get the phone.

  
  
“Hi! It’s Marco!” I reply, trying to sound as cheerful as possible, despite the crushing weight of worry that I am currently feeling. “Is Jean around?”

  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, Marco,” he tells me. “Jean’s not home right now. I think he said he was going to the skate park with some of his friends.”

  
  
“Oh.” I try not to sound so defeated. “Well, could you tell him that I called?”

  
  
“Of course!” Mr. Kirchstien says easily, and I can hear the smile in his voice again. “How have you been doing? School going okay?”

  
  
“Yeah, everything is great.”

  
  
“Great! I’m glad you’re doing well.” There’s a slight pause and then he says he’s sorry but he has to go, but that he promises to let Jean know that I called as soon as he comes home.

  
  
I spend the rest of my evening with the phone beside me, jumping for it every time it rings. But it’s never Jean – it’s always one of Aunt Zeta’s friends, or Connie asking me to do something. I decline, still waiting for Jean’s phone call.

  
  
I wait all night, and by the next morning, I figure that he probably just forgot. Or maybe he was just busy.

  
  
I decide that I’ll try calling him again when I get home from school, because he would have to go home to drop his stuff off. Maybe if I can catch him while he’s still at home for a few minutes, we can finally talk.

  
  
“Hey, Marco!” Connie shouts as I bolt for the door as soon as the bell rings. I make a beeline for my locker, grabbing only the essentials before turning to rush out to the bus to get home, feeling like I’m on a mission to get home before Jean does. “Marco! What’s the rush?”

  
“I have something really important to do when I get home, so I have to get there as soon as possible!” I reply with a wave. I head out of the school and down the front steps as I run to my bus and take a seat near the middle, by a window. At this point, I’m slightly out of breath.

  
  
Sasha plops down on the seat next to me and sighs loudly, blowing her bangs up off of her forehead.

  
  
“What’s your rush, Marco?” she huffs, turning to look at me. “I haven’t seen you run that fast since the gym teacher told you that if you didn’t finish your mile time under fifteen minutes, you would have to redo it.”

  
  
“I just have to get home,” I reply, chewing the inside of my lip. I see her flip phone in her hands and an idea hits me. “Can I borrow your phone to text someone real fast?”

  
  
She nods, handing it over to me. “You know, you should just ask your aunt to get you one,” she tells me as I flip it open and open a new message, typing out Jean’s cell number. “They aren’t _that_ Plus, you could just get, like, a minute phone or whatever. That’s even cheaper.”

  
  
“She already does a lot for me, I don’t want to burden her,” I reply as I start the long journey of texting a message to Jean. It’s a struggle, since I’m not used to texting and I’m not fast like everyone else. I hit the buttons too many times, passing the letters I need multiple times before I get the hang of it.

  
**Marco:** Hey Jean! Its Marco can u please call me when u get home?

  
  
I thank her and hand the phone back to her, and she reads the message.

  
“Your friend from your hometown?” she asks, having heard her fair share of stories about Jean over the years. I nod and bite my lip anxiously again, hoping he replies so I can feel less stressed. “You haven’t talked about him in a while. I was wondering if you were still friends.”

 

  
“It just gets busy sometimes,” I explain with a slight shrug. “But I’m worried about him. He’s been saying weird stuff on MySpace lately, and I feel like… it’s my fault. I haven’t been there like I should have been.”

  
  
The phone chimes in her hand and she hands it to me when she sees the unfamiliar number pop up with a new message.

  
  
**Jean:** Did u get a fone??? Ok. Be home in 15.

  
  
The sigh that comes out of my mouth leaves me feeling like I’m weightless. I thank Sasha and she smiles, putting her head on my shoulder and giving me an ear bud while she puts the other in her own ear. We listen to some Sheryl Crow and Spice Girls for the rest of the bus ride.

  
  
Sasha’s stop is before mine, and she waves before getting off the bus and walking up her drive way. It’s a really long one, and I can barely make out her house in the distance, mostly covered by trees.

  
  
My stop isn’t too much farther, and when I get off the bus I run to the front door. Aunt Zeta is at work still, so I have the house to myself. I grab the phone off the charger and dial Jean’s number, walking toward the kitchen so I can feed all 12 of the cats who are staring up at me, clawing at my pants, and meowing loudly.

  
  
“Hello?” Jean’s voice fills my ear and I immediately break out into a big smile.

  
  
“Jean, hey!” I say, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I fill the empty bowls with cat food. “Hey, how are you? I miss you.”

  
  
He laughs a little, “I’m okay. How are you?”

  
  
I try not to feel a sadness weigh me down when he doesn’t say he misses me, too.

  
  
“Same as usual,” I reply casually. I can’t help but feel like there’s a strange wall that never used to be there before. Like our conversation isn’t holding and flowing like it always has until now. “So, um, I just wanted to call you. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk lately, it’s been pretty busy with this new school year.”

  
  
“Yeah, same here,” he says. “I’ve been going to the skate park a lot, too, with Eren and Mikasa.”

  
  
“Oh, how are they doing?” I ask, moving toward my bedroom to sit down and settle in. Our phone calls usually last for hours, because we catch up and talk about everyone in our lives and usually even play computer games while we talk.

  
  
“They’re doing okay. Eren’s really gotten into skating lately, and so have I. Mikasa is a beast, though,” he tells me. “I’m not on her level yet, but I’m definitely better than Eren is.”

  
  
I laugh, because this is how Jean and Eren’s friendship has always worked. They both want to one-up the other, but usually both are about the same.

  
  
“I saw that you got your nose pierced,” I say, remembering his new profile picture on MySpace. “Did it hurt?”

  
  
“No,” he laughs, “but now Eren wants to get one. He’s such a copycat.”

  
  
“I like it. I think it looks really cool.”

  
  
“Thanks, Marco.”

  
  
There’s a long pause, and it’s weird because I can’t remember the last time we didn’t have so much to tell each other. We’ve always had something to talk about.

  
  
“S-so, I was thinking, maybe next weekend we could hang out,” I spit out, hoping that he won’t be busy already with Eren. I know it’s not fair, but I can’t help but feel a little jealous.

  
  
“Oh,” he says, then adds, “well, that’s probably cool.”

  
  
“Zeta can probably drive me the whole way, so you don’t have to bother your dad,” I tell him. Even though he said yes, I can feel a new heaviness in my chest, a new weight on my shoulders. Things just feel different. “Maybe Friday after school we could head over?”

  
  
“Sure, that sounds good to me,” Jean replies. “Hey, Marco? I have to go. Eren’s here, and we’re about to go skate. I’ll talk to you later.”

  
  
_He’s just busy,_ I tell myself as I pull my legs up and put my head on my knees. _He’s busy making friends and having hobbies. I should be happy for him. Jealousy is not cool, Marco._

  
  
But I can’t help it.

  
  
For the rest of the night, I’m in a sour mood as I think about Jean hanging out with Eren and Mikasa and that Hitch girl. He’s never even mentioned her, so when did she become so important in his life that she’s number one on MySpace?

  
  
Maybe it’s not even about him hanging out with other people. It’s about not having time for me anymore. He’s never on AIM anymore, even though I see him posting surveys on MySpace. Like he’s purposefully avoiding having to talk to me. It hurts my feelings and makes me nervous, because if I lost Jean as a friend, it would be like loosing the last bit of home I had left.

  
  
_A darkness is following you,_ Aunt Zeta’s words echo in my head.

  
  
I sulk for the rest of the day, and the next day, too. Once the weekend comes around, though, I’m glad to have Sasha and Connie come over for a distraction.

  
  
Our robot for the Robotics Club is basically the best one, and our teacher had us fill out forms to show it off, where we could win a ribbon. Sasha and I did all the work, but Connie had some good (and some bad) ideas to throw into the mix, so he gets to keep his name on the project, too.

  
  
“You know, I know you’ve mentioned having a dozen cats before,” Sasha says as she scratches Virgo’s belly and pokes his wet nose softly, “but I really didn’t imagine a dozen cats in one room. Like, this is heaven.”

  
  
I laugh as I angle Aunt Zeta’s camera and take another picture of our robot to use for our poster at the fair.

  
  
“This one is the best one,” Connie says, petting Leo, an overweight orange tabby, who is resting on his lap and stretching his paws out lazily. “He loves me. Sleeps with me every time I spend the night, too.”

  
“Look at this one’s eyes, though!” Sasha says lovingly, picking up Aquarius and forcing her to look at her face. Aquarius has never been much for kisses, and usually pulls her head as far back as possible when she sees you go in for one. “They are so big! Like Puss in Boots from Shrek!”

  
   
I look up at Aquarius and her silent plea to save her from Sasha’s grasp. “She is pretty cute,” I admit, patting her head. “But the real cuddler is Pisces. She’ll lay with you all day if you let her.”

  
   
“You’re living the life, Marco,” Sasha sighs dreamily.

  
   
It’s the first time I’ve heard something like that. My bad luck has all but kept me in the lead for the worst memoir so far, but hearing this, I feel a little lighter. Even if there is a darkness following me, in the last couple of years, things have been pretty good for me. Maybe not perfect, but not bad, either.

  
   
Connie and I exchange a look, and Sasha keeps petting the cats while I take pictures for the poster.

  
   
Sasha’s parents are both doctors in town, so they’re really busy a lot. It’s been that way since I met her in middle school, and hasn’t changed since. When I’m home alone and it’s dark out, I still get a little anxious and have to play music or have the TV on to feel less scared. But Sasha has no fear anymore, since she’s alone more often than not.

  
   
“I can’t wait until I get my license and a car,” she says. “Then I won’t have to be alone anymore, at all. I’ll just drive to one of your houses and make you hang out with me.”

  
   
“When you get a car, you gotta drive me to McDonald’s,” Connie informs her with a big goofy smile. “Get some McFries and McNuggets and bee bop through town late at night.”

  
   
Sasha rolls her eyes but doesn’t say no to the idea.

  
   
“What about you, Marco?” Sasha asks after a moment. “What do you wanna do when I get a car and can drive?”

  
My first answer would be to visit Jean. Aunt Zeta and I have talked about it, and when I get my license when I turn 16 this summer, I can have her car and she’s going to get herself a nicer, newer one. Jean and I had mapped all kinds of road trips we would take together once that happened.

  
   
But now, I feel like they won’t happen. I can see the images I had of us taking pictures in front of Pictured Rocks, or at Mackinac Island floating away as I remember our last phone conversation and all the strange new people in his life.

  
   
“We can play laser tag until 2 in the morning,” I finally decide, “since our parents won’t have to pick us up. We can stay all the way until closing if you have a car.”

  
   
“Marco’s priorities are in order,” Connie says, offering me his hand for a high five.

  
   
“Okay, laser tag and then some late night McDonald’s!” Sasha grins, clapping her hands excitedly. “As soon as I get a car, that’s what we’re doing.”

  
   
We spend the rest of the evening finishing our project. The pictures I took look awesome, and make our robot look really powerful and cool. Sasha sets to work on the poster, while Connie spins around in my computer chair and acts as the DJ, searching different songs on YouTube to play in the background. Lately, he’s been really into Eminem, and while it’s not my favorite, I find that I don’t _hate_ ‘Slim Shady.’

  
 

* * *

   
The next week flies by.

  
When Friday rolls around, I’m grateful that there isn’t a football game that I have to go to, if only to cheer on my friends in the marching band. Instead, I rush inside after the bus drops me off and dump the contents of my backpack out over my bed. I then begin stuffing it with clothes and basic essentials, like my toothbrush and my glasses case and contact solution.

  
I change into a blue plaid shirt and pull my shoes on, heading to the kitchen where I find Aunt Zeta pouring herself a to-go cup of coffee for the ride.

  
   
“Ready to go?” she asks, glancing at me.

  
   
“Yes! I’ve got everything I need for the weekend,” I say, patting my backpack and grinning. “If we go now, we should be there by 8.”

  
   
She nods and hands me the keys, walking ahead of me toward the door.

  
   
“I’m driving?” I ask, shocked and a little too excited at the idea.

  
   
“You get your license in a few months, Marco,” she says, as if I’m _not_ counting down the days (97, to be exact) until I get it. “You have your permit, and you need more practice. This is a great opportunity to get in four hours of training.”

  
   
I grin widely and we head out to the car. The ’93 Wagon in all it’s glory, is mine for the next four hours. I get behind the wheel and start it up, feeling the engine hum from the steering wheel. Aunt Zeta turns on the radio to a talk show she enjoys listening to (political, and it doesn’t really make a lot of sense), and I buckle up and check all of my mirrors.

  
   
Once everything is to my liking, I put the car in reverse and pull out of the drive way.

  
   
I drive us to the express way and get on I-75 South, which is pretty much a straight shot to Jean’s house. Aunt Zeta is really calm in the car, even when I first started driving and had even my driving instructor holding the handle nervously. I’m thankful for it, because she doesn’t backseat drive or make me anxious with yelling when I do something wrong. She just calmly tells me and goes about listening to her talk show radio.

  
   
After the first hour, the excitement of getting to drive is over and it’s starting to get boring. During the second hour, we stop at a drive thru and get some food to eat on the way.

  
   
When we finally make it to Jean’s house, I put the car in park and hurry to get out of the car. I grab my backpack from the backseat and hug Aunt Zeta as she moves to get behind the wheel to drive back home.

  
   
I glance at Grandma’s house next door, where I used to live. It’s taken care of by it’s new owners, a young married couple with a puppy. Jean told me they moved in a few years ago and repainted it, but it’s still the same house. I smile seeing it now, and I have a strange sensation like Grandma’s still there, and she’s happy to see me, too.

  
   
I knock on the front door, and Mr. Kirschtein opens it with a big smile. His hair has started to become grey now, and he’s gotten a little chubbier, but he’s still the same. He opens the door for me and opens his arms, which I do not hesitate to go into for a big, bear hug.

  
   
“So glad that you made it!” he says, and he sounds genuine. It warms my heart to step into their house, so familiar, even with a different color paint on the walls now. It smells amazing inside, and after just another sniff, I know he’s cooking his famous spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. “How was the drive?”

  
   
“It was alright,” I reply, taking off my shoes at the door. “I got to drive down, to get more hours for my permit.”

  
   
“And how’d you do?” he asks, and I follow him into the kitchen so he can stir the sauce on the stove top.

  
   
I shrug, “Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m pretty good at driving.”

  
   
He laughs, a big hearted one, and it warms up my whole soul. He tells me that Jean is upstairs and that dinner would be ready soon, and to make myself at home.

  
   
I take the stairs two at a time and head down the hallway to Jean’s room, knocking on the door before twisting the knob and opening it.

  
   
Jean looks up from his computer desk, and when he sees me step into his room, he gets up and engulfs me in a hug. The tightness I’d been feeling in my chest for the past week seems to ease as I return it, wrapping my arms around his small frame tightly.

  
   
“I’ve missed you, Jean,” I say as we pull away.

  
   
He laughs lightly and flicks the collar of my shirt. “Me, too,” he says and it feels weird since he didn’t actually say the words. I shake it off quickly. “Nice shirt, Marco. Is this how you dress every day?”

  
   
I hold my arms out and look at my shirt – a nice plaid shirt and jeans.

  
   
“Yeah, it’s pretty simple,” I reply with a shrug.

  
   
In fact, it’s how most people in my town dress. Simple and not too busy. But Jean’s outfit is a lot different than mine – a black band t-shirt (what is an Avenged Sevenfold?) with black jeans and choker necklaces with a guitar pick and bracelets all over his arms. Even his bedroom looks the way he’s dressed with red walls and posters with band names I’ve never heard of and skulls everywhere.

  
   
It’s a little alarming and a little scary, but I smile, anyway.

  
   
“So, what do you want to do?” I ask, setting my backpack down on the floor by the door. “Oh! You could play me something on guitar—“

  
   
“Nah, I haven’t been practicing much lately,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “But Eren and I were thinking of making a band, so I might pick it up again.”

  
   
“Oh, that sounds really cool, Jean!” I tell him enthusiastically.

  
   
Everything feels different suddenly. It’s like I’m standing in a stranger’s room and I don’t know how I came to be there. Looking at Jean now, that tightness in my chest comes back ten fold, and I don’t know why. Usually seeing him was enough to ease away any bad feelings I was having.

 

But standing here with him now, everything feels completely and totally different.


End file.
